


Supernatural Discipline Imagines

by ToscaRossetti



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Angelic Healing, Consensual spanking, Corporal Punishment, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Disciplinary Spanking, Discipline, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Discipline, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, John WinchesterxDaughter, Multi-chapter discipline fic, Non-Consensual Spanking, Punishment, Spanking, Spanking in the back seat of the Impala, Spanking in the library of the Bunker, Spanking with a hairbrush, spanking with a belt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 11:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11485935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToscaRossetti/pseuds/ToscaRossetti
Summary: Each chapter will be a different disciplinary scenario with characters from Supernatural. This series is purely for people who like to read about spanking. If you don't like spanking, then hit the back button and go in peace.





	1. In the back of the Impala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean spanks you in the back seat of the Impala.  
> **********

And you know This Is It, you are In For It, as soon as you felt the car swerving to the side and heard the gravel from the shoulder spray up on the underside of the car. 

You're sitting in the back seat, back ramrod straight, head down, anger pulsing in your chest, the words having just left your mouth seemingly still hanging in the air, and oh shit you can't believe you said that to him, no one talks to Dean Winchester that way. Sam is in the front passenger seat, and when the car veers over he turns his head slightly and you see the shocked look on his face.

In seconds Dean is out of the car before it's even come to a complete stop- and he is yanking the back door open and sliding in next to you, his clear green eyes sparking in anger and his jaw tight, and you see the tell-tale muscle jump in his cheek that means that he is pissed. 

He reaches for your seat belt and unbuckles it, tosses it away from your body, and then his hands are on your hips, pulling you forward, and you think This Is It, he's going to pull you down over his knees right here and now and give you What For in the back of the Impala on the side of the road, just like his dad used to do with him and Sam--

But then he is pulling you upright, onto your knees, and you look a question at him but his hands have gone to your waist and he is fumbling at your jeans, and he pops the button and you try to grab at him but he is moving so fast you don't even have time to think-

His hands go to the sides of your jeans and yank them down in one furious move, and because they are tight, your panties get dragged down too, partway, and you feel and hear a whimper in the back of your throat, all the anger gone out of you now--

Sam has turned again slightly upon hearing your whimper, and he faces front as he realizes what's about to happen, just as you realize that this is going to go down in front of him, not only are you about to be spanked in the back of the Impala, you're going to Get It in front of Sam--

Dean has pulled your jeans all the way down to your knees and then reaches up and pulls your panties down to join the denim now bunched around your lower thighs--

And then his hand is gripping your upper arm and before you have the chance to say anything, make a noise or protest, he's pulled you forward down over his knees, and you can feel his muscular thighs shifting under you as soon as your stomach hits his lap--

You struggle for just a moment, trying to turn towards him and look up at him imploringly, but he places his arm across your lower back and pushes down, locking you in place across his lap. 

You can feel the zipper on the cuff of his leather jacket bite into the skin of your lower back, your shirt had ridden up when you turned, and now you are aware that your skin is bare from your lower back all the way down to your knees, and you feel the cool air from the vents waft across your naked butt just before you feel him shift again, his hand grips the side of your waist, and then CRACK! 

The sound of the first swat is loud in the car, and the sting alights on your bottom immediately, and you suck in a breath, knowing this is going to be bad. His hand begins to fall with regularity, setting up a rhythm, left side, right side, then back to left again, his palm starts at the top of your rear end and travels down a ways and then after the sting on the upper part has faded just the slightest bit he goes back to those spots and spanks them again, making them sting worse--

As the tears start to drip down your cheeks he begins to talk, and this somehow makes the spanking more intense, listening to his low growl as his open palm continues to fall-- 

“Think you can mouth off to me like that, I don't know who you think you are with that sassy damn mouth, you're just a little girl along for the ride and I'm the one I charge here, I'm the boss, and what I say goes, and you'd better damn well listen to me next time and keep your little snarky comments and your nastiness to yourself, next time I tell you to shut it you'd better listen to me and shut it, I'm not playing around any more-- this -is—going--to--stop--now--” the last six words are punctuated by sharp slaps to the place right where bottom turns into thigh, and it stings so much more, you're crying aloud now, and then his hand begins to fall in earnest just on that sensitive crease and undercurve, and you try to kick and then bend your legs up to block with your feet--

And then a shriek erupts out of the back of your throat as his hard hand slaps the back of your thigh- once, twice, three times- 

“Get those feet down now before I decide to take my belt off and lay you out over the trunk,” he growls, and you lower your feet down to the floor. 

He continues with the punishing swats to the lower part of your bottom and the tops of your thighs, and you are crying harder now, begging and apologizing and pleading, swearing that you'll never sass him again, you'll be quiet and respectful and obedient if he'll only stop, please, please--

The force and strength of the spanking increases, and you are wailing wordlessly, gripping the edge of the leather seat in front of you, wondering how you're going to make it through the rest of this, your punishment, wishing you'd never opened your damn mouth--

And it is over. 

He sits there for a long moment, resting his hot palm on the sweaty skin of your lower back, and your chest is heaving out sobs and sniffles. You feel a hand on your arm and he pulls you up and you wince as the sore, hot skin of your punished bottom meets the cool leather of the back seat. 

He puts his arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his chest, and you reach up and grip the front of his ever-present flannel, sniveling and sobbing still. He shifts on the seat, reaching into a pocket, and hands you a bandana. You wipe your wet face and eyes with it and hand it back, and you feel his hand stroking your back.

“No more sass outta you, hm?” he says gruffly, “Don't wanna have to do that again, but I will if I need to, you got it?”

“Yes sir,” you say, “N-no more s-sass,” and you lean your head into his chest. He puts his arms around you and hugs you briefly, and you know that all is forgiven. For now.


	2. The Belt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere out there on the interwebs is a gif of Jensen Ackles swinging a folded belt...I'm sure you know the one I mean. This drabble was inspired by that gif.  
> **************

The belt splays down across both my cheeks at once, another lighting bolt of fire, placed right below the previous blow, which is still stinging. 

I can't help it. I jump up with a shout. “Please, Dean,” I say frantically, trying not to reach back and cover my naked butt with my hands. 

“Get back down on the bed,” he growls, eyes snapping green fire at me. 

“I can't--” I whine, “I can't do this, Dean, please-”

He grabs my shoulder and turns me and pushes me face down on the bed again.  
“Stay. Down.” he commands, his deep voice even deeper in his anger.

I lay down on my stomach again and grab double fistfuls of cheap hotel comforter and before I have a chance to prepare myself, the belt comes down again, harder than before, laying down another straight line of pain, almost right on top of the previous one. Both cheeks are on fire as I whimper.

“I don't hear you counting.” he says after a moment's pause. I hear the buckle jingle above me.

“I-I- lost count-” I say breathlessly.

“Then I'll have to start over again, won't I,” It is more a statement than a question.

“No, please, Dean OWW!” The belt whacks down, lower on my bottom, a new stripe of stinging pain that has me leaping up again. I can't control anything, my hands go back to try and rub the sting out.

He leans down, face in my face, and I can see the set of his jaw as he speaks to me from between clenched teeth.

“I told you to keep your shoulders on that bed. And to keep count.” He holds my gaze for a moment, then I drop my eyes. His intense stare is no match for me.

He takes my upper arm. “I guess we'll have to do this the other way. Instead of 10, I'm just going to go until my arm gets tired.”

“Dean--” I plead.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, moving me between his thighs, and puts the belt on the bed next to him. He pushes me down so that my torso is on the bed, and angles his body slightly so that I am snug against him. He takes my wrists in his hand and pins them to the small of my back. He closes his thighs, trapping my legs between his, and I hear the buckle clink as he picks up the belt again. 

He pushes the t-shirt I am wearing out of the way, and I become aware again that it's the only thing I am wearing and that my bare ass is on display. I shudder as I feel the leather brush my skin as he moves his arm.

He begins again, only this time it is not slow and methodical like it was before. He was laying down stripe after stripe, slowly, giving me a moment or two to recover and brace myself, but there is no such thing happening now. The blows are quick and sharp, one after the other after the other, and there is no time to recover, no time to process the pain and get ready for the next blow because it has already fallen. 

The floodgates open and I am bawling and writhing and pleading with Dean, but he doesn't slow down or stop or speak. I realize I prefer the other way, when he talks to me it somehow gives me a lifeline to hold on to, but now there is nothing except feeling his thigh muscles move under me as he shifts his weight, his elbow in my back, and the belt crashing down on my bottom again and again. 

I lose words as it goes on, becoming a shuddering heap of tears and snot and sobs.  
It takes me a few seconds to process that he has finally stopped. The room is silent except for my crying.

I hear him toss the belt on the bed next to me and he releases me. I slide down onto the floor, tucking my legs under me, hissing as my flaming skin touches my heel. I lean my head against his knee and sob.

I feel his hand on my head for a moment.

“You're still in trouble,” he says, “Get up on the bed.” 

I stand up on shaking legs, wanting him to take me in his arms and comfort me, but I know that is not going to happen right now. 

He stands up and threads his belt through the loops on his jeans, and I walk around the bed and lay down on my stomach.

“I'll be back in a few minutes. Do not get off this bed, understand?”

“Yes sir,” my chest hitches. I clutch the pillow to me, waiting for his return.


	3. Over Sam's Knee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh, you're in trouble with Sam...  
> ******************

You never thought you'd be in this position you currently found yourself in- face down over Sam Winchester's lap, waiting for him to spank you. 

Sure, Dean had spanked you a couple of times- he was the one in charge. He'd spanked you for putting yourself in danger and engaging in un-necessary risks. He'd spanked you in the back of the Impala for insubordination. He could be a tough task-master, but that was who he was.

Sam was different, he was more even-tempered and slow to react, and you didn't think he'd actually ever do something like this. But he was pissed, because you hadn't listened, more than once, and you'd broken a rule that was important to him. 

“How many times have we gone over it, 'No Food or Drink In the Library' ?” Sam asks. His hand rests on your lower back. 

“Sam, I'm sorry!” you exclaim, squirming on his thighs. He is so big that his legs stick out, making a perfect shelf for you to lay over. He's also so tall that your feet don't reach the floor, so you dangle there like a small child, which makes you feel even more embarrassed and vulnerable than you already feel. 

“No, I asked you a question. How-- many-- times?” his voice becomes stern.

“Umm...a lot?” you try to make your voice playful, hoping he'll let you up.

“Well then why do you continue to bring your coffee in here in the morning, and your food? Do you think you're somehow exempt from this rule?” 

N- No, I don't think that,” you feel your face flood with shame. You normally folllowed every rule that the Winchesters set out, to the letter. 

“Then why do you do it? Do you not respect the rules? Do you not respect the books we have here? You know that many of them are priceless antiques!” His voice is full of outrage, and you cringe at the memory of his stunned face when he saw you leaning over an open book with a crumbling muffin in your hand. 

“N-no, Sam, you know I love books as much as you do!” you protest, “Um, can't we, um, talk about this?”

“We are talking about this,” he says flatly.

“Um, I mean...face-to-face, y'know--” 

“No, we can't. My father always said that being over someone's lap was a good way to focus your attention on the issue at hand, and what's to come after the discussion.” 

“I am focused, please Sam!” you squirm again, and move your torso, grabbing the top rung of the chair and trying to push up off of his lap.

“NO,” his voice is deeper and loud, and it startles you. 

A second later there is the sound of a swat, and a sting on your right butt cheek. “Oww...” you find yourself whining before you even realize it. 

“Stop it, you're not going anywhere until I'm done with you,” his voice is stern again. You feel his hand on your back, pushing down, and you fight against him for a moment. “Do I need to hold your hands behind your back? Because I have no problem doing that.” 

“No, Sam!” you say in a panic, letting go of the chair and laying back over his thighs. You don't want to add to the embarrassment of being in this position, and having your hands trapped would make it worse. 

“Then be still,” he waits a moment, adjusting you and pulling you towards his body. “Now, I've spoken to you more than once about having your drinks and food in here. And I've found crumbs in a book twice now, and today there was a coffee ring on the front of the Treatise on Herbal Remedies from 1881! Fortunately the cover is leather and I was able to wipe it off without any lasting damage.” 

You feel your face flaming with remorse. You do love old books, and you hate to think that you could have done anything to damage them. “I'm sorry,” you say quietly. 

“Well, I don't think you're sorry enough. But after I'm done with you, you will be.” Sam puts his arm across your lower back, holding you there, and then you hear the crack of the first swat falling, and feel the sting bloom on your butt cheek. You suck in a breath at the pain, and then another smack falls on the opposite cheek. 

Sam has a different spanking technique than Dean. Dean is of the “hard and fast” school, when he spanks it's breath-taking and there's barely time to think about it, just stinging pain that builds and builds as his hand peppers your ass continuously. 

With Sam, he's taking his time. He pauses for a couple of seconds between each swat, giving you a brief moment to register the pain before the next blow falls. Each spank falls above or below the previous one, slightly overlapping. His hand is huge, and just about covers one whole cheek, so in just a few swats, your whole bottom has been spanked and is stinging. 

He starts again at the crest of your cheeks, this time speeding up a little, and spanking the same spot a couple times in a row. You inhale sharply at the build-up of pain that this causes, and start to squirm on his lap again. You find yourself putting your arm around his leg and burying your face in his jeans-clad calf, gripping the lower rung of the chair with your other hand. 

“Sam!” you gasp, as the swats begin to fall on the undercurve of your ass, and then right at the sensitive crease where butt turns into thigh. “Please! Pleeeease, I won't—I mean I—please, I'm sorry!” 

You're twisting your torso to try and escape his falling palm, and he tightens his grip on you and growls, “Settle!” You shiver at how much he sounds like Dean at that moment; you hadn't realized that Sam could be as stern and commanding as his older brother.

His hard hand crashes down again, starting another set of punishing smacks at the top of your rear end, and your feet begin to kick involuntarily. His palm rains down, harder this time, and faster, the spanks coming quickly with no time between each one, and you are breathless now, it's almost too much, and you feel the tears in your eyes begin to spill over. You watch them drip off your face onto the hard wood floor beneath you. 

“Saaam, I'm s-sorryI'msorryI'msorryyy!” you howl, trying to fight against him one last time. He snugs you tighter against him, and the swats fall even harder. You're not going to be able to get away, he's over 6 feet tall and pure muscle, and you realize that this won't be over until he's decided that he's done. You've disobeyed him more than once, and you disrespected the rules and mistreated the books. You're getting what you deserve. 

And at that, you go limp, and stop struggling, letting the tears flow full-force, washing away your shame and remorse. 

Sam's reached that place again, right where your ass and thighs meet, and his hand peppers those spots, hard, and then falls on your upper thighs a few times each, and you squeal. 

He places his hand on your lower back, and you can feel your chest heaving. He lets you lay there for a few moments, getting control of yourself, then you feel his hands on your arms, lifting you up to sit on his lap. “All right, it's over,” he says gently.

You turn to him, throwing your arms around him and burying your face in his neck. “S--sorry, Sam, I'm so so sorry,” you heave out between sobs, “I w-won't do it a--again, I p--promise.” 

You feel his hand on your head, moving your hair away from your wet face. “Good, I don't want to see it happening any more, because I have no problems doing this again if I have to,” his voice is low and stern again. 

“You w-won't,” you agree. 

“Good,” he says, putting his arms around you and pulling you into his chest. You sit together as you calm down, Sam resting his chin on top of your head. Your butt is throbbing, and feels like it's on fire, but Sam knows how to comfort too, and you soak up the feeling of his arms encircling you, and you know that all is forgiven.


	4. Punishment from the brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After you mess up on a hunt, both the brothers punish you.  
> ******************

The apology is stuck in your throat. 

You'd spent the ride back to the bunker wanting to speak, to plead your case, to apologize to Sam and Dean, but Dean's terse, “Not another word until we get home,” had silenced you. 

You silently help the brothers patch each other up, their injuries weren't bad this time, fortunately...although the guilt you were feeling was making you feel pretty damn bad.

Dean closes the first aid case and picks up the glass of whiskey, draining it and then setting it back on the table. “All right, now it's time to deal with you,” he says in his deep, serious voice. You knew he was still angry with you. 

“I'm...I'm sorry,” you offer in a small voice.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Dean comes over to stand in front of you and puts his hands on his hips. “We told you to wait, we told you not to do this alone...and you had to be stubborn once again and run off.”

Your idea, where you would find the monster and gank it all on your own, therefore proving what a great hunter you were to the brothers, now seems like a monumentally stupid idea instead of a heroic one. “I—I thought--” 

“You thought what? That you could handle it by yourself? That you're this great, awesome hunter with lots of experience, who can handle shit like this on her own? That you don't need anyone's help?” Dean's voice is hard. 

You feel tears come to your eyes. You weren't that experienced, you were still learning and trying to prove yourself, and that, combined with your stubborn-ness, made you reckless...and you were learning that those things, in combination with working with the Winchesters, were not a good thing. The Winchesters were careful, and responsible, and they did detailed research before a hunt and made sure they had everything they would need. They valued following orders, and rules, and not lying to each other, and being safe and responsible. You had done none of those things. And one of the 'Winchester Laws' was that when you broke a rule, or disobeyed an order, or put yourself in danger, you got punished. 

“I—I said I was sorry!” you protest.

“Saying you're sorry isn't good enough, you always say that,” Sam says, perching on the edge of the table across the way. He puts his hand on his thigh and watches you.

“You're off the hunt. For at least the next two. You can help with research but you're not allowed out in the field until I say so,” Dean's voice is stern. 

“Y-yes, Dean,” you stare at the floor, embarrassed to be grounded like a kid. 

“Now, there's still another matter to attend to,” Dean pulls out a chair, turning it around. He beckons you with his hand, and you stare at him with dawning realization and horror. Was he going to--

“What did I tell you last time about foolish and reckless behavior?” his green eyes are hard ice. 

“I, um, you said...” you feel your face grow hot as you blush, “You said that, you'd, y'know...” you stare at the floor again, “...blister my ass,” you whisper. 

He sits down in the chair and beckons you again. “Come on then, y/n.”

You swallow uneasily. Dean has spanked you a couple of times, and it's not a fun experience. You know you've earned this, and it's your own damn fault, but it's hard as hell to make your feet walk over to him. 

He reaches up and takes your arm, pulls you down over his knees. You gulp again, and put one hand on the wooden rung of the chair and the other on his shin. He adjusts your body slightly, and you feel his hand on your lower back, holding you in place. You hate this position, it makes you feel like a helpless little kid, and reinforces the feelings of guilt and shame that you usually have when you screw up a hunt. 

CRACK! The first swat is loud in the room echoing off the book-lined walls of the library. You inhale a sharp breath and then start to squirm as Dean's hand begins to fall with regularity, setting up a pattern of punishing swats on your tender ass. 

“Dean, please...I'm sorry,” you say breathlessly, then louder, so you can be heard over the sound of his palm falling on your rear, “I'm sorry! Pleeeease!” you plead, kicking your feet a little. 

Dean pauses. “You will not run off and hunt on your own again, y/n, is that clear? No more putting yourself in danger, no more reckless behavior.”

“N-no, Dean, I w-won't, I s-swear,” you agree quickly. 

He puts his right foot on the lower rung of the chair, raising your hips slightly, and you give a little squeal- now your butt is even higher, and you're tilted forward slightly, so that he can get better access to the lower part of your ass. You wrap your arm around his calf and brace yourself for the next set of spanks. 

Dean starts at the top again, and then works his way down over your rear end, one side and then the other, and then lower down, smacking the lower curve now, and then that sensitive spot right where your ass and thighs meet. 

And that proves to be your undoing. Tears start to fall from your eyes as his hard hand peppers the crease, lighting it on fire. You are aware that you've been begging, and you squeal as his hand lands a few solid swats on your upper thighs as well. 

He has stopped, and you lay there sobbing for a few moments, and then he helps you stand up. You expect him to take you into his arms, but instead he turns you around.

“Go and see Sam,” he says. 

You glance back at him to see if he is serious. “S-sam?” you ask, and he nods. 

You turn towards Sam, who is still sitting on the edge of the table, his body turned slightly so that one thigh is dangling off.

He is looking at you with a stern expression. You shuffle over to him, wiping your wet face with the hem of your flannel.

“S-sam?” you ask with a shaking voice. 

“You have to answer to me, too,” he says in a hard voice, “You and I did the research together, and we strategized and made a plan together. And you threw it all out the window.” 

“Oh,” you realize that he is right, “Sam, I'm so--”

“Save it,” he says tersely, and he reaches out and pulls you over to him. He pulls you down over his thigh that is resting on the table, and in doing so, your body is drawn up slightly so that you're draped over him, and your toes are barely brushing the floor. This makes you feel even more small and helpless than being over Dean's lap. 

He lays his arm over your lower back, pinning you there, and then his huge hand is coming down on your already-sore ass. You can't help it, you shriek and burst into a fresh torrent of tears. His humongous palm covers almost your whole cheek, and in just a few swats, he's spanked your whole ass, bringing the fire that Dean had started to inferno level.

You kick your feet, which just causes him to lock his other leg over the backs of your and continue raining down swats. “Be still,” he says, and you shiver at the low stern-ness of his voice. You reach your arms out and grip the far edge of the table so that you don't struggle. 

You cry, and you wail, and you plead...but none of it helps. Sam Winchester can spank just as hard as his brother, and he makes sure to cover every inch of your butt with stinging swats. You lay limply across the table as he spanks the undercurve, the crease, and the tops of your thighs. And then he is standing the both of you up, and you feel his arms around you. You put your arms around him and sob into his flannel shirt.

And then Dean is behind you, you can smell his whiskey-and-leather smell. He puts his arms around you too, and you turn and curl one arm around his back. Dean kisses your temple, and Sam rests his chin on the top of your head.

“We need you to be responsible, to be safe, y/n,” Dean says quietly. 

“I w-will, I p-promise,” you agree, your chest hitching. Sam and Dean hold you until your tears have dried up, and you feel safe and comforted in their arms.


	5. Over Sam's Knee--Again!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I got this idea from a guest reviewer, and just went with it...this chapter ended up being a little more harsh than I intended, and somewhat non-con...at least in my mind. You may not think so, but I wanted to give you warning in case a scenario like this bothers you.  
> **********

“What—the—HELL, y/n?!” 

Sam Winchester is angry. He's 6' 4” of muscle, and he can be intimidating even when he's calm, but Sam angry? Angry at you? Holy hell, you realize you've screwed up, and screwed up big time. 

“How did you find me?” you push the fear that's in your gut down, trying to act like you're not about to start shaking in your shoes. 

“Search browser,” he tells you, “You always forget to clear everything.” 

Dammit, that's right, you're not that computer savvy, and Sam can always figure out where you've been in the computer- or where you're planning to go. You feel yourself start to blush a little bit and look down. “Well, I'm fine, I don't need you here to back me up--” 

He steps close to you, looking down at you. “Did you happen to forget what Dean told you?” he asks, and his voice has dropped a notch, just like Dean's does when he's pissed. Dammit. 

You look up at him and say with outrage, “I'm not a kid, I don't need people telling me what to do!” 

He shakes his head, and gives a short chuckle. “But you agreed to abide by our rules, and you know you're supposed to do what you're told. And that includes being told you're off the hunt.” 

You fold your arms over your chest and try to glare at him. “I don't need to be grounded from hunting like some stupid--”

“You agreed--” he interrupts, speaking over you, “And yes, sometimes people do need to be grounded from hunting, so that they can look at how they've been doing. And you know that you got yourself in trouble last time, and that's why Dean took you off.”

You sigh angrily, and drop your eyes to the ground again. Yes, you had messed up before, and both brothers had taken you over their knees for that screw-up, and it had been a couple days before you'd been able to sit comfortably when they were done with you. You didn't like this, being held accountable for things, being called on your mistakes. 

“Well maybe I need to start going out on my own again,” you snap, clenching your jaw. 

“That's something that you can decide later. Let's go,” he takes your arm. 

You try to pull away. “Excuse me? I'm not going anywhere, I've got to finish this!” 

Sam's huge hand wraps around your bicep. “ You're not even supposed to be out here.”

“I'm not actually on a hunt, I'm doing recon, come on! Sam--” you try to pull away again, and you see that little tic in his jaw, which makes your stomach clench for a second. He's still pissed, and getting even more so. 

“Let's—GO,” he grits out, and suddenly he leans down, and picks you up, and then you're over his shoulder, and you're looking at everything upside down. 

“Sam! Put me down!” you ball your hands into fists and drum them on his broad back. You start to kick, and he puts his arm over the backs of your legs, holding them against his chest.

“Stop it!” he scolds, landing a swat on your left butt cheek. You give a little shriek, because damn, that hurt! Sam's hands are freaking huge, and hard.

“All right,” he says, when you've reached the clearing where his truck is parked. He lets you go and leans forward, setting you down, but he doesn't let go of your arm. You try to step back, but he pulls you around to face him, and all of a sudden, you're tucked under his arm, against his hip, and his hand comes down on your butt in a flurry of stinging swats that has you gasping in surprise. 

You try to move, throwing your body to the side, but you can't, because he's holding you tight, so you stomp your feet and rise up on your toes to try and move your butt out of the line of fire. 

“Ow, Sam, STOP, ow, dammit, OW!” you screech, trying to grab onto something. You clutch the back of his jacket with one hand, and feel the tears start to drip out of your eyes as his palm continues its relentless journey across your ass. 

Then he is letting you go, but he still has your arm, and he opens the door of his truck and lifts you up into the cab like you weigh no more than a child. You wipe your face as he walks around to the driver's side and gets into his seat.

The drive back to the bunker is full of tense silence. You stare out the window, trying to figure out what to say in your defense, how best to say what needs to be said so that you don't end up with a sore ass again. 

Sam pulls into the garage and turns the key and clicks the button that turns the headlights off.

“I wasn't hunting, I was doing recon, checking the place out,” you say stubbornly, “I was gonna let you know what I'd found.” 

“Save it,” Sam says in clipped tones, getting out of the truck. You follow him, wincing as you slide off the seat. Your butt is still stinging a little from the earlier spanking. 

You walk past Sam, through the library, intending on hiding out in your room for the rest of the evening, hoping that Sam will cool down and forget how angry he was in the woods. 

You've just reached the hallway when you hear his voice raised, “Y/N!” he hollers, and you flinch. Damn, he sounds angry. 

You turn and hurry back to the library, and go over to him, where he is standing next to one of the tables. There are a couple of low stacks of books on the table, and you aren't sure why he called you back in here, until he gestures with his huge hand--

\--and you look down at the table, and see the ring on the wood, from a cup. It's a dark stain, and you feel your shoulders hunch unconsciously at the anger you know is coming-- after all, he'd spoken to you more than once about food and drink in the library, and he'd punished you a short while ago. You had learned your lesson...

Sam takes your shoulders in his hands and gives you a shake. “What is going on with you, huh?” he asks, his face getting red and his hazel eyes darkening in anger. “Do you just not give a shit about the rules?”

“I—no, Sam, I do care about the rules, you know that!” you protest.

He lets you go and turns to walk a couple of steps away, pushing his hair back from his face and taking a deep breath for a moment. He turns back to you. “Are you deliberately disobeying the rules I set out, is that it?” And there's that little twitch of muscle in his lower jaw again, the one that he gets when he's really pissed--

“N-no, Sam, th—that's not it at all!” you say quickly.

“Then what is it?” he starts to walk towards you, and his face is set and uncompromising. You feel fear twisting in the pit of your stomach, because damn, he looks angry. 

“I—I--” you stutter. 

He takes your arm with one hand, and pulls a chair out from under the table with his other hand. Then he's sitting down, and you're standing right there in between his knees, and he reaches out and pops the button on your jeans, and for a second you don't understand what he's doing--

“What the hell—Sam, NO!” You grab at his hands, which are on the waistband of your jeans, and you step back to try and move away from him, but in seemingly one quick movement, your jeans are rucked down to your knees and he's pulled you down across his lap. 

“SAM!” you holler, trying to push up on his leg, on the side of the chair, anything. 

He pushes down on your back and clamps his legs together on your thighs. And you realize, oh shit! You're upended over Sam Winchester's left thigh with your ass in the air and the only thing between his calloused hand and your butt is a thin layer of cotton. 

“I'm sorry!” you screech suddenly, hoping an apology will do something, anything, to lessen what is going to be happening shortly. “I'm sorry, Sam, I'm sorry--” 

The sound of his hand landing on your panty-clad ass is loud in the library and you swear the slap ricochets off the walls. You flinch, and a second later cry out as the sting spreads out over your butt cheek. Oh my God this is going to suck. 

“Please!” you plead, grabbing the rungs of the chair and trying again to push your body up. “Please, I'm sorry!”

“It's too late for sorry,” Sam grits out, and he lays his arm across your lower back, pressing down. You're trapped now, there's no way you'll be able to get out of his hold. 

There's another loud slap and then the stinging on the other cheek, and you screech. 

Then Sam's hand begins to descend on your butt, falling into a rhythm, and holy shit it hurts worse than you could have imagined! You try to squirm on Sam's knee, and you kick your legs as much as you're able, which isn't a lot. And none of it does a damn thing to alleviate the pain of the spanking, which continues, seemingly for hours. 

You open your mouth to plead with him some more, but all that comes out is a wordless wail. Tears start pouring down your face as the onslaught continues, and then suddenly the biting swats seem to be even more biting, and it's because Sam's hand has migrated down your rear end to the undercurve, where the skin is more sensitive, and oh crap! your panties have ridden up a little and the lower part of your cheeks are bare, and his hand is falling there just as relentlessly as everywhere else, but it's like he's spanking your bare butt, and occasionally the bare tops of your thighs as well.

All you can do is moan now, you're never going to disobey the Winchesters ever again, neither of them, and you're going to follow orders to the absolute letter. 

He lands another set of hard swats to the undercurve, and then a few more right in the center of your butt, and then stops. He rests his hand on your lower back, and all you can hear now is your shuddering sobs. 

Sam lets you lay there until you're more in control of yourself, and then he helps you up off of his thigh. You wipe your face with the sleeve of your flannel, and then use the hem to dry your eyes. He starts to tug your jeans up, and you wince as the fabric slides over your scorched ass. 

“No—more—drinks—in—the--library--” Sam says in a deadly serious voice. 

“N-no, S-sam,” you agree, your chest hitching. You want him to take you in his arms and hold you and tell you all is forgiven but it seems like he's still upset—and you also want to run and hide in your room and nurse your wounded pride—and your wounded ass. 

You look up at the sound of footsteps, and Sam turns in the chair as Dean comes into the room and walks towards you. It takes you a second to see what he's holding- a soft rag, and a can of furniture polish. 

“What's going on, Sammy?” Dean asks, looking from Sam to you. “I gotta try and buff out this soda stain, I didn't realize it happened until I saw it this morning,” he says sheepishly. 

You feel a shock then-- it wasn't you, it wasn't your fault, and Sam-- he just punished you for it--

You glance at Sam and he looks just as surprised as you feel, and tears fill your eyes as you begin to hurry out of the room.

“What is it, Sam?” you hear Dean ask as you begin to run, and you hear Sam's voice calling you, but you ignore him, and slam and lock the door to your room, throwing yourself down on the bed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So tell me, my dear readers, what should happen next with our fair OC? I'd like to hear your ideas!


	6. Aftermath and Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too happy about the last chapter, with Sam. I feel like he was too harsh, and I hadn't been intending to write the chapter the way it ended up. But these characters sometimes take on a life of their own, and that's what happened. And that happens again in this chapter...there is no spanking, however, there is mild smut ahead, be warned...and be nice, I'm still learning how to write smut, and I've only written a little bit so far!  
> ****************

This is a continuation of the previous chapter, "Over Sam's Knee-Again!" You should read that chapter first.  
***************

You're laying across your bed on your stomach, with your pillow clutched in your arms. Your tears have finally stopped, but your chest still hitches every once in a while. 

There's a soft tap on the door. 

“G-go away,” you call, figuring it's Sam. You don't want to talk to him or see him. 

“Y/n?” it is Dean. Oh god, is he going to yell at you for going into the woods? You turn and pull the sheet over your torso, wincing as it settles on the sore skin of your backside. After you'd come in, you'd gotten off of the bed and taken your jeans and panties off, and then laid back down on your stomach.

“Y/n, can I come in?” Dean's voice is quiet. He doesn't sound angry or stern at all. 

“Yeah,” you call. 

The door opens, and Dean walks into the room and closes the door behind him. He walks over to the bed and stands there, looking down at you. 

You turn and prop yourself up on your elbow. “Dean, I'm sorry-- I wasn't on a hunt, I swear, I was just checking the place out, and I was going to tell you guys everything--”

“Hey,” he puts his hand up, “I'm not worried about that right now. Are you, uh-- how are-- things?” he asks awkwardly. 

“Well, I think I'm going to have trouble sitting comfortably for a while,” you say bitterly. 

“Can I, uh, can I...check it out?” he asks, obviously uncomfortable. You've seen each other in various states of undress before, you've all worked on stitching and patching each other up when you're half- dressed, but this...this is different. 

“Why?” you ask suspiciously. 

“Well, I can, uh, get you somethin'...for the pain, maybe,” he offers.

You sweep the sheet off of your torso and legs, and Dean leans over the bed, and you hear his sharp intake of breath. 

He straightens up, and says, “I'm gonna get some cream for you, okay?” his voice is clipped, and he looks angry now. Shit, is he upset with you? 

“Uh, you don't-- you don't have to, I'm—I'll be fine,” you tell him. 

He shakes his head. “I'll be back,” he turns and leaves the room, closing the door a little hard, and you turn and lay down on your stomach again, leaving the sheet off. The cool air of the room feels good on your hot skin. 

At one point you think you hear raised voices, possibly an argument, but you aren't sure. The acoustics of the Bunker can be a little odd sometimes.

A few minutes later there's a soft tap on the door and Dean comes in again. He's carrying some stuff in his hands, and he sits down on the edge of the bed.  
“Here, take this,” he hands you a white pill as you prop yourself up on your elbow again. 

You look up at him, raising your eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Tylenol with codeine,” he removes the lid from the water bottle and hands it to you. You take the bottle and drink about half of it down. Then you lean over and place the bottle on your bedside table while Dean takes the top off of a tube, and sets it down.

“What is that?” you ask him.

“Uh, arnica cream. It's used for pain and swelling, supposed to help prevent bruising too,” Dean holds the tube up briefly. He shifts on the bed, and asks, “Ready?”

You turn back onto your stomach, and say, “Yeah.” 

You flinch slightly at his touch, and then shudder at the coolness of the cream. He spreads it on your skin gently, not rubbing it in, but just smoothing it over the punished flesh. It stings just the slightest bit, and then feels warm for a moment or two, and then cool. He removes his hand and a moment later there is more cool cream being smoothed on, further down. You start to relax at Dean's gentle touch. 

When he gets to the undercurve, you hiss from the discomfort, and push yourself up, turning to look back at him. 

“Sorry, it's...a little more red here.” 

“I can tell,” you say dryly. 

“Listen, Sam-- he screwed up, and he knows he did,” Dean says quietly, continuing with the cream, “He's got a temper, and we both know it...and he's usually real good about controlling it. Our Dad wasn't the greatest at that, there were times when he'd punish us in the heat of the moment when he was angry. And both of us have tried to learn from that and not be the same way, you know? But sometimes, it doesn't happen like that.” He wipes his hands off with a wet-wipe, and then dries them with the little hand towel that he brought in.

He stands up, and carries everything over to your desk, setting it all down there, and then walks back over to the bed. He sits down closer to the head now, closer to you, and takes your arm. “C'mere,” he says in a gentle voice, pulling you upright. 

You start to sit up, saying, “Dean, what--” and he pulls you into his arms and hugs you. 

You're a little surprised, Dean isn't one for spontaneous hugs, sure, he'll give you one after he's punished you, or to give you comfort when you go to him, but he's never really reached out to you first like this. 

“D-dean, I'm sorry I went out--” you start to say, and he shushes you. 

“Shh, we're not talking about that,” he says quietly, “Just relax, I'm not upset with you. It's okay, you're okay.” 

You shift on the bed and hiss as your butt comes in contact with the bed. Sitting is going to suck for a couple of days. 

“I'm sorry,” Dean says, brushing your hair back from your face, “and so is Sam.”

“I don't—I don't want to talk to him right now--” you say hesitantly, a little worried that Dean will get angry with you for that. 

“I understand, that's okay,” Dean says gently. 

Your eyes fill with tears, he's being so gentle and sweet with you—you had honestly been a little scared of Sam's anger earlier, and the spanking he had given you was harder than you had expected. You start to feel a little woozy, and realize that your head is spinning a little. 

“Oh,” you say, “The medicine's kicking in.” 

Dean gives a little chuckle. “So you'll be feelin' all right in a few. Man, you're a lightweight!”

“Well, I'm not used to taking medicine like that...and my stomach is empty!” you protest. 

“You want me to get you something to eat?” he moves, like he's going to get up, and you grasp at his flannel. “No, Dean, stay,” you beg, and your voice sounds like a young child, “Stay with me until I fall asleep?”

“All right,” he agrees, “Slide over.” 

It takes a couple of minutes and then you are laying in bed, being the little spoon to Dean, who is behind you. You feel him stroking your hair, and it relaxes you and makes you sleepy. As you start to drift off, you feel him moving his body closer, and he puts his arm around you. You wrap your hand in his, feeling safe for now. 

 

Kissing...lips are kissing you, slowly, deeply, and they work their way down your chin, and you feel teeth nipping at your neck, and then feather-light kisses skating across your collarbone...and then further down, and you can feel a tightening in your belly, as a tongue flicks across your nipple...you moan, and arch your back towards the mouth, wanting more, and then you feel a pang shoot through your abdomen as teeth bite down gently...

“Sweetheart...y/n...” Dean's voice is quiet, “Uh, wake up...”

You open your eyes, and it takes you a moment to get your bearings. Last night, in your room, Dean putting cream on your bottom, and then you laid down with him...did you ever put pants back on? Oh my God, no you did not! 

Dean is on his back, and you're laying half on top of him, with your leg thrown across his hips and your face nestled in his neck. It feels like you had just been kissing him—but you can't be sure! And here you are half-laying on top of him, wearing nothing but a long t-shirt. “Oh my God, I'm so sorry!” you gasp, feeling your face get hot. You try to move off of him, his arm is around your back, and he stops you. 

“Hey, where you goin'?” he asks in that same gentle tone. 

“No I can't-- let me go!” you break free of him and turn away, hiding your face in your hands. 

The mattress creaks as he shifts behind you. “What's wrong?” he asks, concern in his voice. 

“Oh, geez, Dean, did I---” you just remember that you rarely take medicine like codeine, because it tends to give you really weird dreams. Sometimes they're nightmares, and sometimes...sometimes they're very sexual. And it's never anything you can control. 

You feel his hand on your shoulder. “Y/n, talk to me,” he says quietly. 

“Did I-- did I do-- anything?” you ask in a rush.

He gives a slight chuckle. “Well, I woke up to you moaning...and you were kinda, uh, grinding against my hip, and then you moved up and started kissing my neck--”

“Oh no!” you exclaim, feeling your face get hotter, “I'm so sorry!” 

Dean squeezes your shoulder. “Hey, it's all right.”

“No it's not, you were sleeping and I-- that happens sometimes when I take that type of medicine, I'm really sorry--”

He chuckles again. “It does? I'll have to remember that,” the mattress shifts as he sits up, “Hey,” he pulls on your shoulder.

You refuse to move, and hide your face again.

“What're you doing?” he asks. 

“I'm embarrassed.” 

“Don't be, it happens,” he says. 

“I can't help it...I'm not...you know.” 

“No, what? You're not what?” 

“Never mind. Just—I need some time...by myself, okay?” 

He is silent for a long moment. “All right,” he says, and gets up out of the bed. He leaves the room without so much as a backward glance. 

You sit up, wincing again, because your butt is sore. It's almost 7:30 in the morning, according to your alarm clock. Dean must have fallen alseep with you. You wonder if the two of you spooned all night. 

You get up, throw on your bathrobe, then you hurry down the hall to the bathroom to take a shower. You're going to have to face Sam today. What are you going to say to him? You're still upset, but mostly you feel hurt. 

After you're finished in the bathroom, you dry your hair in your room and choose a soft cotton dress to wear that has a long skirt. You can wear it without any underwear, which will be good since even the tightness of elastic feels too sensitive on your skin right now. Maybe you should ask Dean to apply some more cream on you. 

And that makes you think about Dean. The dream you were having—did it really happen? Was he kissing you like that? You don't think it's something he would do...but it was so real, it felt like it was really happening, and your body was responding like it was happening. But then you realize, in the dream, you weren't wearing any clothes, and you've been wearing the same shirt since last night. And when you woke up, your shirt was down,covering over your torso, and you'd been in the process of kissing his neck. So the dream was just a dream. 

 

You step out of your room, feeling nervous and uncertain. You can smell coffee and bacon, and you head right to the kitchen. Dean is standing at the stove, and Sam is standing next to him. 

“Oh, hey,” Sam turns when you come in, and gives you a shy smile. 

“Hey,” you say, the slightest bit cold. You still don't know how to feel.

Sam glances at Dean, and then at you, and his face changes. “Uh, y/n, I just—I wanted to say--” he hangs his head, shame-faced, looking like a little boy-- “I—I'm really sorry, I didn't-- I mean I-- I wasn't thinking, and I-- I punished you when I was angry, and I shouldn't have, and I-- I fucked up,” he exhales deeply, and closes his eyes for a moment, and glances up at you, “I really fucked up, and I—I hurt you, and I'm sorry. I'm really sorry,” his voice sounds anguished, and you are surprised to see his eyes are sparkling with what look like unshed tears. 

“Please-- if you can-- a—accept my apology--” his voice chokes, and he stops. He swallows, and you can see his throat moving. “I, uh, I didn't mean to hurt you, and I'd never want to, it's just—I was so worried when I found you in the woods, I don't—I don't want to lose you, you know? I—care about you, a lot. I'm so sorry, y/n,” he looks at you imploringly, and suddenly, you can't be mad at him any more. 

You go over to him with your arms up, and he slides his arms around you and leans down so you can put your arms around his neck. You squeal a little as he lifts you off the ground like he always does, and then he puts you down. He drops a kiss to the top of your head as he lets you go. 

“Omlette's done, it's chowtime,” Dean says, picking up the pan he's standing in front of.

Sam takes your hand and leads you out to the formal dining room that rarely gets used. It has a huge, antique table and chairs set that is made of heavy dark wood that is ornately carved. 

There are three plates set out, a platter piled high with bacon, another platter with pancakes, a jug of maple syrup, and a vase full of fresh-cut flowers. 

Dean serves a portion of omlette onto each plate as Sam leads you over to a chair and pulls it out. There is a pillow on the chair, and you look up at him. “Thanks,” you say, blushing. 

“I knew you'd need it,” Sam ducks his head, embarrassed, “I remember times I'd need a pillow after our Dad got done tanning my ass.” 

Dean comes back into the room with the coffee pot. “I was always a man, and sat on a hard chair without boo-hooing like Samantha here,” Dean teases, filling our mugs with fresh coffee. 

“Shut up, jerk,” Sam teases back, as they sit down. 

We serve the food and eat in companionable silence, until the bacon and pancakes are almost gone. 

“That was great, thank you,” you tell them, smiling at both of them. Sam stands up and collects the plates and silverware. “I'll get everything,” he says, and leaves the room with the dirty dishes. 

You look over at Dean. “Dean, I'm sorry about...this morning, I didn't mean to do...what I did,” you feel yourself start to blush again.

“Really, y/n, it's okay, I'm not, y'know, offended or anything,” Dean smiles at you, “In fact, I wouldn't be opposed...if something like that happened again.” 

You feel shocked. “You wouldn't?” 

He leans forward a little, and places his hand on yours. “No, I wouldn't...I care about you too, y/n. Both me and Sam do.” 

There is a ringing that startles you, it's the Bunker phone. After a couple of rings, Sam appears at the door. “It's Bobby, says he wants to talk to us about a potential case.” 

“All right,” Dean stands up and starts to leave the room. 

You want to call after him, “What did you mean, you wouldn't be opposed? What did you mean, you care about me? We need to finish this conversation!” But you sit in silence as they walk down the hall to the War Room.


	7. Sick: An Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you have a bad head cold...and the Winchesters discover that you are a bad patient.   
> ********

“Ah-choo...aah—ahh-choo! AAAH-CHOO!” You yank another tissue out of the box at your elbow and blow your nose, and then toss the crumpled tissue onto the table.

“All right, that's it,” suddenly Dean is there, moving the laptop that you're hunched over out of the way.

You turn in the chair and look up- and you're confronted with a wall of Winchesters. Two broad flannel chests with strong forearms crossed over them topped with concerned faces looking down at you. 

“You're done with research, you should be in bed,” Dean says to you.

“I'b fide,” you say, trying to breathe through your plugged-up nose. 

“We've been listening to you hacking and sneezing in here for two days now, you are anything but fine,” Sam says, “Go to bed.” 

“Id's jus' a liddl cold,” you say, and then you let out another enormous sneeze. 

“C'mon, kiddo,” Dean steps next to you and leans down, putting his hand under your elbow and pulling you up, “Let's go.” 

“Bud I deed to helb Sab,” you protest, as Dean steers you towards the hallway. 

“I got this, y/n, you need to rest,” Sam calls. 

You're hoping that Dean walks away, so that you can sneak off to the library, but no such luck. He walks with you into your room, and even pulls the covers down on your bed. 

“C'mon, in,” he gestures. 

“I'b fiiiide,” you say, and your voice squeaks. 

Dean chuckles. “Sure, squeaky mouse. Can I get you anything?” 

“Uh-uh,” you shake your head and lay back. As soon as he leaves, you're going to get up and go to the library, but it is comfortable to lay here in bed—and the covers are so soft and warm--

 

Coughing. You can't stop coughing. Your lungs feel hot, your throat is on fire, and it is painful. You sit up in bed, trying to catch your breath. 

Your door opens, and Dean and Sam come into the room, worry etched on their faces. 

“Y/n,” Dean says, coming over to the bed, “Here, can you drink some water?” He has a tall glass of ice water, and you nod and take it from him.

“Small sips,” Sam cautions. 

You take a drink, and swallow, and then another sip, and swallow, and another. Then you sigh and smile up at them.

“Thaks, Deed,” you say gratefully.

Dean places his palm on your forehead, and then frowns. “She's pretty hot. We still got ibuprofen in the med kit?”

“We should,” Sam says, “How are you feeling, that sounded really bad.”

“I feel preddy crappy,” you tell him, “By lugs hurd.” 

“I'm going to see if I can find that humidifier,” Sam leaves the room. 

“Maybe we should prop you up, too,” Dean says.

“I cad sleep thad way,” you whine. 

“Well, if it will help you not have coughing fits, then you need to try it,” Dean tells you firmly, “I'm going to get you some pillows.” 

Several minutes later, a humidifier is pumping warm steam into the room, you are surrounded by a sea of pillows, and Sam is sticking an ear thermometer in your ear. It beeps, and he removes it and looks at it. “102,” he says, putting it on your night stand. He picks up the bottle of ibuprofen, shakes a couple out, and hands them to you. 

“Finish that water and I'll bring you some more,” Dean says, leaning down to adjust a pillow behind you. 

“Sdop fussig over be!” you wave your hand at him. 

“You're sick, y'n, we're just trying to take care of you,” Sam says, “You want some soup? Or tea?”

“I'b nod hugry,” you tell him stubbornly. 

“Hot tea will be good for your throat,” he says, “I'll make some, and bring some honey in.” 

“I do'd wad any!” your voice squeaks indignantly, and then you start coughing again. 

“Make the tea, Sammy,” Dean says, “Quit arguing with us, y/n,” he looks down at you. 

“Or whad?” you snap, folding your arms and doing your best to glare at him-- it's hard when your eyes are watering. 

Dean leans down and looks you in the eyes. “Or your forehead isn't going to be the only thing that's hot,” he says sternly.

“You—you cad do that, I'b sick!” you protest. 

“If you aren't listening, or following orders, then I'll do what I gotta do, and that includes hauling you over my knee,” Dean declares. 

You huff at him and sink back into the pillows. He raises his eyebrows at you, and says, “I'll be back with some more water.” 

Once he leaves the room, you close your eyes and rest. But you start thinking about the case- you know you had come across something that used the herbs that Sam had found at the last 2 crime scenes, but you can't remember where you read it. If you could just get back to the library--

You sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed, preparing to go get your laptop. You can still do some work while you're in bed. 

The door opens and Sam walks in with a tray. There is a large mug of hot tea, and a jar of honey on the tray. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, coming over to the bed.

“I was godda ged by labtob,” you tell him.

“No you're not, get back in bed. I told you, I got this. You don't worry about it, you rest and get better.”

“Sab!” you protest. 

He sits down on the bed and sets the tray down as you start to cough again. 

Once you are done coughing, he scoops out a spoonful of honey and holds it up to your mouth.

“I dodt need you to feed be,” you snap, moving your head to the side.

“C'mon, y/n, I've got the honey right here, open up,” Sam says patiently.

Dean walks into the room just then, carrying another glass of ice water. “She still not listening?” 

Dean raises his eyebrows at you and gives you a look, and you glare at him as you open your mouth and let Sam feed you the spoonful of honey. 

It does feel good on your raw throat, and you pick up the mug and take a sip of soothing tea.  
“Thaks,” you say gratefully.

“See? We do know what we're talking about,” Dean says. 

“I found a menthol treatment for the humdifier, you put it in and it mixes with the steam, it's supposed to help clear out your sinuses,” Sam tells you, getting up and walking over to the humdifier.  
“You need to stay in bed, y/n, no getting your laptop or anything,” Sam turns after he's done fiddling with the machine. 

“Oh, was she trying to get her laptop?” Dean looks at Sam and then at you, “Little girl, I find out you've gotten out of bed for anything besides going to the bathroom, and I will definitely be warming your butt. You got it?” 

“I'b not a kid!” you squeak indignantly. 

“Yeah, well, you're acting like a brat, and brats get their butts smacked around here,” Dean tells you.

You huff at him, and he raises his eyebrows at you again. “You wanna test me?” he asks sternly.

You shake your head and sink back into the pillows. 

“Get some rest, y/n,” Sam leans down and drops a kiss on the top of your head, “We'll be in to check on you later.” 

They leave the room, and you continue wracking your brain, trying to remember where you saw that information about the herbs. Was it in 'The Witch's Physick', or 'The Book of Hoo-Doo and Spells'? Maybe it was in that book 'Enchantments from the Middle Ages'. You'll have to check it out later, right now your eyes are heavy...

 

You wake up in the middle of the night, certain you remember which book you need. You take a deep breath- you can breathe through your nose again! The menthol treatment must have worked! You get out of bed, and sneak out to the library, even though it is the middle of the night, and you know the guys are asleep. You stand at the shelves in the library, and grab a few books, piling them in your arms, and take them back to your room. 

You spend the next long while poring over the books, looking for the list of herbs, marking certain pages with a piece of ripped tissue. 

Suddenly the door opens, and Dean is there. He stares at you in surprise. “What th--”

“I—I remembered where I saw the information on the herbs that Sam found at the scenes, you know, I just wanted to help--” you babble, as Dean advances on you. 

“What did I tell you?” he asks in a hard voice, “Huh? What did I tell you?”

You flush and stare down at the book in your lap. “Dean, I'm okay, I feel a lot better--” and then you start to cough again. 

Dean doesn't say anything, just begins to pick up the books and carry them over to your desk. He picks the book up off your lap, and tosses it onto the end of the bed, and then sits down on the edge and takes your wrist. In a moment he has pulled you down across his lap, and you squeak and try to push yourself off.

“No, you're staying right here,” he says firmly, pressing his hand down on your lower back. 

“I told you to stay in bed. You need to listen, and do what I tell you,” he lectures, as his hand starts to fall on your rear. 

“Ow! Dean, let me up!” 

“I told you you were gonna get a butt warming if you didn't listen, didn't I?” 

“Yes! Ow! Okay, I won't-- I'll listen!” you say, struggling over his knees as he continues to land more sharp swats. Your rear end is starting to sting.

He pauses, and then smacks your butt once, “You're sick, and you need to let us take care of you. You gonna do that?” 

“Okay! Yes!”

He smacks your butt again, “You gonna follow orders and do what you're told?”

“Yes!” 

Another swat, lower down, “You gonna stop bratting?”

“I'm not—ow!” you exclaim as he spanks you a couple times on the undercurve. 

“Yeah you are. You gonna stop with the bratting?” 

“Yes!” 

The last few swats fall right on the crease where butt turns into thigh, and you actually kick your feet a little and whimper out loud, feeling tears come to your eyes. 

“What's going on?” you hear Sam's voice, and you look up to see him standing in the doorway.

“Oh, I caught this one looking at books she'd brought in here from the library,” Dean says in a conversational tone, like he didn't have you pinned down over his lap for a spanking.

Sam comes over to the bed and stands there looking down at you, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“You want to punish her for bringing the books in here, Sammy?” Dean asks, “I got her right here.”

“Well-” Sam says, and then he says, “Books-stay—in--the library!” giving you a spank after each word. 

You gasp when his huge hand lands on your already sore ass, and more tears come to your eyes.  
“Okay, I'm sorry!” you whine. 

“You keep trying to do research, and you'll find yourself over my knee,” Sam tells you, landing one last spank right in the center of your butt. 

The tears that came to your eyes have started to make your nose get plugged up again, and you start to cough and sneeze. Dean helps you up onto his lap and hands you some tissues. After you've wiped your eyes and blown your nose you lean on his chest. 

“You up for some breakfast, y/n?” he asks.

“Yeah, I do feel kinda hungry.” 

“All right, I'll make some pancakes, but I'll bring them in here to you. You're staying in bed until we say so, got it?” Dean looks down at you.

“Yes, Dean,” you say obediently.

“That's what I want to hear, good girl. Back in bed with you,” he kisses your temple and pats the side of your thigh. 

It takes you a few days to get rid of your cold, but under the watchful eyes of the Winchesters you get plenty of rest. You make sure you behave, so that you don't end up over someone's lap again.


	8. The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Dean spanks you. You think you can handle 10 swats from Dean Winchester, no problem, right?  
> This story became a lot longer than I anticipated...there was a lot to describe! (heehee)  
> Warning for Non-con punishment spanking.  
> ************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: I felt like it wasn't finished, I think since it was the first time, Dean would talk to her a little bit about it. I added a couple of little bits and a little bit onto the end. Hope you enjoy!  
> ************

You let yourself into the bunker, and start to walk down the stairs. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean's growl drifts up to you, and you look down over the railing to see him sitting at the table. 

“Well hello to you too,” you retort. 

He turns in the chair as you walk over to the table. “Sammy and me have been worried sick, we didn't know where you'd gone!” He glares at you, and then turns and shouts over his shoulder, “SAMMY! She's back!” 

You slide your purse off your shoulder onto the table. “I had a doctor's appointment, geez,” you say defensively, “Why is that such a cause for alarm?”

Sam walks in as you're speaking. “That's not the cause for alarm,” he says, “This is.”  
He leans over and places something on the table. Your cell phone. 

You gulp, and look up at him. He folds his arms over his chest and glowers at you. “Aren't you supposed to keep this on you at all times?” he asks tightly.

“Uh, yeah,” you say, “But I was running late, and I didn't notice I'd forgotten it until I got there.”

“Unnacceptable,” Dean says, “We've already had this discussion with you before.”

You look over at him. “You too? This isn't fair, you can't both gang up on me like this!”

Dean leans forward. “Yeah, it is fair, you know what the life is like! Things can change at a moment's notice, and we need to have our cell phones ready so that we can communicate with each other!”

“Well I'm sorry, I-- forgot!” you say hotly.

Dean sits back and crosses his arms, mirroring Sam's stance. “Not good enough. You can't forget shit like that.” 

“We've told you more than once how important it is to have your cell phone on you at all times,” Sam chimes in, “And we worry when we can't get in touch with you or we don't know where you are.”

“I thought I told you that I had a doctor's appointment!” you exclaim. 

Both of them shake their heads. “You mentioned last week that you have one coming up,” Sam says, “You didn't specify when.” 

“And you know, you said you wanted to start going on hunts, but if I can't trust that you're going to remember something as simple as taking your cell phone with you, I can't trust that you're going to be responsible on a hunt,” Dean states matter-of-factly.

“Dean, that's not fair!” you protest, “I can be perfectly responsible on a hunt! This is ridiculous! Just because I forgot--” 

“You can't forget when you're hunting!” Dean's voice is raised now, “You need to bring your 'A game', all the time, and you can't make excuses about 'oh, I forgot'!”

“We need to know that we can trust you, and that you'll follow orders, and both of those are looking like no right about now,” Sam says.

“So you're both going to yell at me?” you ask tightly, looking back and forth at them, “That's not fair either!” 

“You need to think long and hard about this, if you're cut out for hunting, and if you want to try and continue with training,” Dean's voice is low and serious.

That hurts your feelings, and you rage at him, “I—I'm not some dumb kid who doesn't know anything about hunting--”

“You are a kid. And If you were my kid sister, I'd haul you over my knee for this. In fact--” Dean looks over at Sam, “Maybe that's what needs to happen. After all, when we disobeyed Dad's orders, we'd get our asses tanned.”

You stare at Dean, horrified and embarrassed at what he's just said. “What? I—I won't allow it!”

Dean stands up. “It has nothing to do with allowing, sweetheart. I'm the head of this operation, and what I say goes. You agreed to follow my orders, did you not?”

“Yes,” you fold your arms on your chest. 

He walks over to you. “And you agreed to abide by the rules, and be trained by us.” 

“Y-yes,” you say, looking up at him. 

He's standing in front of you now, arms crossed over his chest, a stern look on his face. “And it follows that if you break a rule, or disobey orders, that there should be some kind of consequence, shouldn't there?” 

“I, uh, I...I guess,” you tuck your hair behind your ear, noticing that your hand is shaking. 

“Well, the consequence for this is a spanking,” Dean says firmly.

“A—a spanking?” you feel breathless suddenly—a little turned on, a little nervous, “I, um, I didn't know...that you liked that sort of thing,” you say mischievously, raising your eyebrow. 

Dean huffs a short chuckle. “Yeah, it's not like that, sweetheart. Sure, I like to hand out a spanking while I'm in between the sheets, sometimes, but this is different, this ain't gonna be sexy-times. This is discipline. Punishment for breaking a rule.” 

“Oh, punishment, huh?” you scoff. Really, how bad can it be? A spanking? You think back to the spankings of your childhood, a few quick swats and it was over, there'd been a couple of times you'd been turned over a knee and had trouble sitting for the rest of the day, but it hadn't been that bad. You felt ashamed and you cried and laid on your stomach to watch cartoons, and at the end of the day all was forgiven and there were hugs and cuddles. 

“Yeah, punishment,” Dean's voice has dropped lower, what you think of as his 'serious hunter growl'. It gives you chills, because he's talking to you in that voice. 

“All right, fine,” you toss your head, “Let's get this over with.” 

“Really?” he says with disbelief, “Well, all right then, let's go,” he takes your elbow. 

“Where are we going?” you ask as he leads you towards the hallway.

“To your room, figured you wouldn't want Sam overhearing you gettin' your butt blistered.” 

“Uh—Dean--you're not really gonna, uh...bl-blister my butt?” you ask nervously. 

He chuckles. “Nah, not really, it's mostly a figure of speech.”

“Uh, mostly?” 

“Well, there were occasions where Sam or I ended up with bruises or welts, but that was after a serious belt-whipping or paddling from our Dad, and don't worry, that's not happening here...yet,” Dean smirks as he opens the door to your room.

“Yet?” you yelp.

“I'm just kidding, y/n, calm down,” Dean closes the door and looks around, then walks over to the bed and sits down on the edge. He looks at you expectantly. “Well, y/n, let's get this over with,” he beckons you with his hand.

You stand still, suddenly apprehensive. “Uh--”

Dean puts his hands on his thighs. “Come on, kiddo,” he says. 

You blush. “Don't call me that, I'm not a kid!” 

“You certainly act like one sometimes,” Dean says in a matter-of-fact voice. 

That pisses you off, and you growl, “Shut up, Dean!”

He looks surprised. “You're telling the person who's about to wallop your butt to shut up? That's not a wise choice.” 

“Dean--”

He points to the floor in front of him. “Come here, y/n. Now.” 

You feel a pang in your stomach. Your breath starts to come quicker, shallow, nervous inhales. 

Dean shifts on the bed. “Do I really gotta start counting, like you're a kid?” He sighs, and shakes his head when you don't move. “All right, y/n. If I get to three, and you're not over here, across my lap, your pants are coming down. Got it? One...”

Oh God, he said your pants would be coming down. The thought of him seeing your panties, while you're over his knee—you hurry over to him, and stand in front of him. 

“That's better,” he says, taking your hand and guiding you to his right side. He tugs on your hand, and you take a deep breath, and then lay yourself over his lap. He moves so that your upper body is on the bed. And oh crap-- he's just tall enough, and you're just that short, that your legs come off the floor, leaving them dangling next to his, which makes you feel like a kid. 

“You stay here, across my lap, and you don't reach back to block, understand?” he tells you. 

“Um, o—okay,” you said hesitantly. 

You feel him put his hand on your back. “Ready?” he asks. 

You nod, and then realize he can't see you. “Yeah,” you mutter. 

Three seconds later you are scrambling to get up as the sting spreads across your right cheek.  
“Holy shit!” you choke out, struggling against Dean. 

“What did I tell you?” Dean asks sternly, pushing you down. 

“Dean!” you protest, “That was way too hard!” 

“Well, this is a punishment, it's not for fun, ya know. Listen, I was gonna give you ten swats, think you can do that?” 

“Um, 10?” That doesn't sound so bad, “Uh, I guess,” you say. You can get through ten swats. 

Dean locks his arm across your lower back. “All right, I'm starting,” he tells you.

His hand cracks down on the other cheek, and you cry out at the sting. 

SMACK! “Oww!” you exclaim, and try to push your chest up. You don't get very far because of his arm pinning you to the bed. “Dean let me up!” You realize that your voice sounds like a whine, and you blush. 

SMACK! You yelp this time, and then a whimper escapes your mouth. 

“Down,” Dean pushes his arm against you, and you're pushed back onto the bed. He shifts you a little bit on his legs, and you feel the muscles in his thighs moving under you. 

WHACK! “OUCH!” you yell, and you turn to try and glare up at him. It doesn't work very well. 

“Come on, y/n, only 6 more to go, you can do this,” Dean says encouragingly.

“I—I don't WANT to do this!” you huff, and you throw your hand back and clutch at your smarting buttock. 

“Move your hand,” Dean says sternly. He waits a beat, another beat, “Y/n,” his voice deepens, “I said move. Your. Hand.” 

You shiver at the stern-ness in his voice- it would be almost sexy, if you weren't in the position you were in right now. 

“Not until you say you're going to go easier on me! You're hitting too hard!” 

“Sweetheart, I am hitting exactly as hard as you need. And you know, you aren't in any position to bargain with me right about now. Due to your position over my lap,” he chuckles.

“Ha fucking ha,” you mutter, “Come on, Dean!” 

“Excuse me? What did I just hear you say?” his voice is stern again. 

“What?” you snap.

“You will not curse during a punishment,” he tells you firmly, “Now what did you say?” 

“Fine, I'm sorry!”

“No...you're going to tell me, what—did—you--SAY?” his voice is steel now, and you feel a pang in your lower abdomen. 

“I—I said, ha f-fucking-ha—OW!” you shriek, as he lands two hard swats to each cheek. The two on the cheek that your hand is covering land lower down, on the undercurve, and oh God it hurts! Tears come to your eyes. 

“That was for cursing during your punishment,” he says severely, “Now, shall we get back to it?” 

“I—I—no! Please, Dean!” you exclaim. 

“Move your hand,” he says in a voice that is barely patient, “I've given you more than enough chances here. Stop acting like a brat and deal with your punishment.”

“I'm not a brat, don't you call me that!” you flare angrily, struggling against him.

“I didn't say you were a brat, I said you're acting like one. And yeah, you are,” he pauses, “Y/n, I'm tired of this. I keep telling you to move your hand, and you're not. You're disobeying me, in the middle of your punishment. If that's not acting bratty, I don't know what is.” 

“Well I'm tired of this too! Just—just let me up!” you rage. 

“No,” he says simply. 

You struggle against him again, but all that gets you is sweaty. You're panting a little from all your exertions. 

“Now, you can move your hand, and take the six you got coming, and we'll call it even--”

You interrupt him. “Six? You—you spanked me four times a second ago!” 

“I told you, that was for cursing. You still got six more.” 

“No!” you shout, and you try to push up with your feet. Dean moves his leg, and puts it over top of your legs, locking you further in place over his lap. 

“Cursing, disobeying, telling me no...what am I going to do with you?” he asks, “You are deep into brat territory, little girl, and brats get their asses tanned in this house.” 

When he calls you little girl you feel another pang, dear God it turns you on a little, and you squirm again, knowing your face is red. 

“Move your hand, six spanks, and I let you up. If I have to move your hand I'm just spanking you until I think you've had enough.”

“Dean, please, can't we talk--”

“No, we can't, you're over my knee until I say so, and that's that. Last chance, y/n,” and his voice is barely patient again.

He sighs. “Fine,” and you feel him prying your hand off of your butt. He takes it and moves your arm, holding it pressed against your lower back. 

“Ow, ow, OW! DEAN!” you shriek as his palm begins to fall on your butt. You count six, yelping after each swat, tears filling your eyes again as the sting builds up to a continuous burn.

And then the seventh swat falls, and the eighth, and the ninth--

“Dean, ple-eease!” you whine, trying to twist your torso. 

“OW!” you yelp again as the tenth smack is particularly hard, “Let me UP! You-- OW!” you screech as his hand falls again, smacking the left side, right side, leftrightleftrightleftrightleftright in a harsh rhythm that takes your breath away for several seconds. 

“Oooh! I hate you!” you grit out, trying to kick your feet. You can't really, the way Dean's leg is pinning yours. You are well and truly held down over his lap. He's over 6 feet of muscle and strength, and you're no match for him. 

Dean sighs. “Y/n...” he says regretfully, “That was the wrong thing to say to me. Being defiant only gets you more punishment. Now I've got to spank you until I'm sure that the defiance is all gone.” 

Well, shit. You buck your body as hard as you can, wriggling and struggling, and Dean just holds on tightly. “You done?” he asks, after you are gasping and sweating again. 

“Aaaarrgh!” you growl in frustration, and then screech again as his hand starts to fall. 

Oh God, why didn't you just move your hand and take the 6 spanks? Dean starts at the crest of your buttocks, covering each cheek with well-placed, stinging swats that slightly overlap, making the burn feel worse. He spanks down to the undercurve, and by then you are crying. 

Then his hand lands on that place, the crease right where your ass becomes your thigh, and oh God it hurts even worse. 

“Oh Dean please! I'm sorry, I'm sorry for everything just please!!” you wail as his hand peppers the sensitive creases. “PLEEEEAASSSE!” 

He doesn't let you up. His hard hand continues to fall, laying down smack after smack, and then they start landing on your upper thighs, which is a whole new level of pain. The thighs are sensitive and yours have never been spanked. 

You wail again, but there are no words this time. Your face is soaked with tears, and you grab the blanket on the bed with your free hand and pull it towards you, burying your face in it and sobbing. Dean's hand continues, starting its second journey across your ass, igniting the sting into an inferno. When he reaches the undercurve again you just lay there limply, spent, and resigned to your fate. 

A couple of hard swats to the crease. And then he stops. You feel his hand in your hair. 

“All right, y/n, it's over,” he says gently. You're still sobbing, tears running down your face, snot smearing onto the blanket your face is buried in. 

He lets go of your arm, and you pull it up and cover your face with your hand. You feel his hand carding through your hair. 

He lets you lay there until your sobs are just shuddering gasps, and then you feel his hands on your arms. He lifts you up and takes you into his arms. Produces a bandanna to wipe your face with, and you blow your nose and then toss it on the bed. 

Dean puts his arms around you, and you lean into him. “Okay, it's all done,” he says quietly.  
You feel him rubbing your back, and you put your arms around him.

“I-I'm sorry,” you say, your chest hitching, “I w-won't-- forget my phone-- or-- or disobey you again, or—curse like that.” 

“All right, good girl,” his voice is gentle again, and you feel him kiss your forehead, “You need to remember to follow the rules, and obey my orders. I want you to be safe, and responsible.” You feel him stroking the back of your head. 

“I—I will,” you sniffle.

“If something like this happens again, you're going to end up right back here, because I have no problem punishing you if I have to. So you remember this next time you're leaving, you check to make sure you've got your phone, all right?” 

“Yes, Dean,” You snuggle in closer to him, reveling in the warmth of his body.


	9. Sneak Peek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'all have lit a creative fire in my head! I'm in the process of writing two fics, and I wanted to give you a little preview of both! Please leave me feedback and tell me what you think!  
> *************

STORY #1:

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This idea was given to me by an Anon, Dean threatening a week's worth of spankings. What I've come up with is that Y/n was given a list of tasks to complete while the Winchesters were away, and nothing got done. Now she has to face the consequences, which will be 5 nights of bed-time spankings. There's going to be some Non-Con Disciplinary Spanking and some other possible kinks like elements of D/s. Here's a peek at the first night. Hope you like it!  
**********

“Here's how this is gonna go,” Dean says, sitting down in the chair, “You're going to tell me what you did wrong, and we're going to discuss it, and then you're going to ask.” 

“Wh-what?” you are shocked. You didn't think he was going to expect you to talk about things! You don't want to have to analyze what you did and didn't do.

“You're going to ask me to spank you.” Dean looks up at you, his clear green eyes watching your face.

“Wha—why? I can't-- I-- that's humiliating!” you burst out. 

“Why is it humiliating? It's you admitting that you've done something wrong and needing to face the consequence. If that humiliates you, that's on you,” he says reasonably.

“Fine,” you huff. 

“All right, come here,” he points to the floor in front of him. You stand there in the V of his legs, your head down. You can't look him in the eyes.

“Tonight, we're dealing with the salt rounds. What happened with that?” Dean folds his arms over his chest.

You feel yourself start to blush. “I—I-- you, uh, told me to fill 100 of them and I, uh, I...didn't.” 

“And why didn't you?”

Your face gets hotter. “Because, I, uh, I was busy--”

“Ah-ah,” he interrupts, “I don't want to hear any excuses. You own up to your misbehavior.” 

“Uh, I, uh...there's...there's no reason,” your voice trails off into an ashamed whisper. 

“And what's wrong with that?” 

“Well, I, I mean, you told me to do that, I mean it was a task you had given me, to get done while you were away, y'know...” you find yourself toe-ing the floor in front of you, just like a nervous kid does when they're in trouble. 

“Yes? And?” Dean prompts when you're quiet for a long moment. 

“And, uh—it was, it was wrong of me?”

“Yes, why?” he leans forward, watching your face.

“Well, uh--” you wrack your brain for a moment. You're so embarrassed that you can barely think straight, “It's, uh—you told me--”

“I gave you the task because it was something that needed to get done, and we need to make sure we have a ready supply on hand. Now, because of your slacking, we don't have the supply we might need on the next hunt, and we'll have to take time out to fill the rounds. Time that could be spent researching or tracking or working other aspects of the hunt.” 

“Oh...yeah...” you sigh and bite your lip. God, this sucks. You're not used to being held accountable like this. This could be a potential life and death situation, this isn't like missing a phone call or a meeting in an office setting.

“So, why was that wrong to not do what I told you?” 

“Um, because, you needed to have the salt rounds ready to go for the next hunt, and now...they aren't ready. Because of me.” 

“Right,” he sits up straight, puts his hands on his thighs, and looks at you, “Anything else you have to say?”

“Well, uh,” you have an idea, “It was wrong of me, because...you told me to do something, and I—I disobeyed you.” 

He nods. “Yeah, that's what it comes down to, all right.” 

He unbuttons the cuff of his right sleeve and methodically begins to roll it up to beyond his elbow. Geez, how is his fore-arm so muscley? Are they supposed to look like that? And looking at his muscles you realize, Sam's hands are freaking huge, but Dean's hands are pretty big too. And if his arm muscles are anything to go by, his hands are probably pretty strong as well. Damn. 

“Well?” he looks up at you, his face serious, waiting. 

“Uh--” you take a deep breath. You don't know why this is so hard. “Dean, umm...I need...” no, you don't need this, well, he thinks you do, but you don't-- “would you, uh, would you...” you stop, and exhale, closing your eyes a moment, and then opening them, “Would you spank me, please,” you say in a rush. 

“All right,” he nods, and reaches to take your arm, pulling on it, “Come here,” and you lower yourself over his waiting thighs. 

This position sucks- over Dean's lap when he's sitting in a chair, there's nothing to hold on to, your arms and legs are dangling on either side of his strong thighs, making you feel helpless. He's so tall that your toes barely touch the floor as you lay there. You grip the lower rung of the chair and place your other hand on his leg, waiting--

Dean holds your side, pulling you closer to his body, and you feel him shift, and then the first swat falls, and you hear it crack and feel it right after, and you inhale sharply from the sting.

 

***********************************************

 

STORY #2:

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This idea was given to me by Mindy- thank you so much for sharing it! I think this is going to end up being a separate multri-chapter story, because what I have planned so far is longer than the individual one-shots I've been writing in this series. I will keep you apprised when I have written more and am ready to publish. Here's the basic plot: There are killings happening in a small town, and it looks to be witch-craft. There's an all-girls school nearby, and rumors are flying that there's a coven there. The Winchesters and Y/n go undercover at the school. There's a couple of catches though- Sam and Dean are going as teachers, and Y/n will be a student. And the school allows corporal punishment!  
Here's a little taste of the beginning- please let me know your thoughts about it! Hope you enjoy!  
***********

 

“Do I really have to wear this?” You turn around, looking in the full-length mirror at the school uniform that you're wearing- a white button down blouse with a little plaid tie, a short blue and gray plaid skirt, and light gray knee socks. 

“Ohh my God,” Dean is staring at you in shock.

“What?” you ask defensively. Do you look ridiculous? 

“You just—uhh, you look, um, well, you look...hot,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, and you laugh, because The Big Bad-Ass Hunter Dean Winchester is blushing a little bit! 

“You're into the school-girl thing?” you tease, twitching your hips. 

“Ye—well, no, I mean, that makes me feel like a skeevy old guy, y'know, it's not...not like that, not, y'know, an actual school-girl. Just...you...” he holds his hand up and gestures at you, “You, in that short little skirt and that tight blouse--” 

You feel yourself blushing. Dean's never commented on your appearance, and it makes you feel good.

“You like what you see?” you strike a pose, thrusting your chest out and tilting your hips, and Sam scoffs and shakes his head. 

“Well, yeah, I mean, you're usually wearing, y'know, typical hunter gear, t-shirt and flannel and jeans, and that doesn't exactly show off...what you got,” Dean gestures at you again, looking a little embarrassed.

“Oh. Well...thank you!” you grin at him and sashay away from him and then spin around in a circle.

“Well, if we can get back to the plan,” Sam clears his throat, “We're going to be undercover, all three of us. Dean and I are going as teachers, and you'll be going as a student.”

“What? Me? Why do I have to be a student?” you protest.

“Because, y/n, it's an all-girls school, and you can look young enough to blend in. And we need someone with the adults and someone on the inside, with the girls, and that way, Sam and I can be figuring out if it's an adult group, and you can be infiltrating the girl's clubs and see if any of them are doing anything with the occult,” Dean explains.

“Well, all right,” you agree. 

“Uh, there's one more thing,” Sam tells you, “You're going to be with one of us...as our daughter.” 

“What?!” you screech, and then you burst out laughing. You skip over to Dean and throw your arms around him. “Ohh, Dean, are you going to be my daddy? Will you be my... 'sugar daddy'?” You laugh, nuzzling his flannel chest.

“All right, all right, calm down,” he says, taking your arms away from his middle, looking even more embarrassed. 

“Ooh, is my 'daddy' going to spank his naughty girl?” you laugh again, and both of them look at each other and shake their heads. 

“Keep that up and you're gonna find out,” Dean says with a growl, but he's teasing you. 

“Well, y/n, we were thinking that it might be better if I was your father. Because I'm taller, and people tend to look smaller with me, people will see us together and assume you're my daughter,” Sam says.

“Okay...Daddy Sam!” you go over to him and put your arms around his waist, “Are you gonna tuck me into bed at night?” you bat your eyes at him. 

“Man, she is having waaay too much fun with this,” Dean says.

“I'm being serious, y/n,” Sam says firmly, “This isn't a joke. These people are killers, and they're doing some pretty serious magic. We're going to need to be on guard at all times. And completely undercover all the time, too.”

“All right,” you put your arms down and stick your lower lip out in a pout. Then you look up at Dean. “That means...you're my 'Uncle Dean'!” you grin at him, “Are you going to be the cool uncle who takes me places and spoils me?” 

“Hmm...we'll see,” Dean says with a smirk, and then he pulls you to him and wraps his arm around your waist, snugging you against him, “Uncle Dean won't hesitate to spank if there's misbehavior,” he says, and he lands a swat on your butt.

“Ow!” you squeak.

“You gonna behave for me?” he asks sternly, but his eyes are twinkling.

You grin up at him, still feeling playful. “Maybe?” you say with a wink.

“Maybe? Maybe I need to show you what Uncle Dean will do,” he growls again, giving you another spank, and then he pinches your rear end and you squeal.

“All right, can you two cut it out?” Sam is shaking his head again.


	10. A Week of Red Cheeks- First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the Winchesters were away, they gave you chores to do...and they didn't get done. Dean tells you that your punishment for this will be a week's worth of spankings. Are you going to submit quietly, try to talk your way out of it, or rebel?  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the first night, and I re-wrote some of it, so it's a little different from the sneak peek in the previous chapter. THANK YOU to those of you who left comments, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and please let me know what you think!  
> *****************

Your ears are ringing from the scolding, your face is red from blushing, and your stomach is twisted in nervous knots. You screwed up, and you screwed up big time.

You stand next to the table in the library, with your arms folded behind your back, staring at the floor. Dean has been reading you the riot act, picking up the items on the table as he discusses each one of your failings-- you didn't clean the weapons thoroughly, or put some of the guns together correctly. You were supposed to fill a certain number of salt rounds, and you'd barely done any. You were supposed to work on sorting and alphabetizing some of the books in the library, and you hadn't even started. You had gone into the gun range and practiced shooting, by yourself, which you had been told specifically not to do by the Winchesters. Turns out there's a sensor on the door that logs when it's unlocked, locked and opened. 

“ --and that, that is something that I can't just let go, we told you not to practice shooting by yourself, for safety reasons, and you disobeyed! Not only that, but that's dangerous!” Dean's hands are on his hips as he glares at you, “You've racked up quite a list of screw-ups while we were away, got anything to say?” 

“I, uh, I--” you stutter, shifting your weight from one hip to the other. 

“There's one more thing,” Sam says, “What happened with your phone? Why couldn't we reach you?” 

You glance up at them. Shit, keep your face neutral, what were you going to tell them?

“Oh, yeah, I, uh—I lost it, I think it might be underneath your bed, Sam, I think it fell out of my pocket while I was watching my shows--” you swallow uneasily. The plan was, to get your broken phone from its hiding place on top of the fridge, and then when you were pretending to look for it under Sam's bed, you'd 'find' it and 'discover' that it was broken. 

The guys had ended up calling one of the extra cell phones while they were away, and you'd made excuses about why you weren't answering your phone.

Sam reaches into his pocket, leans forward, and places something on the table. You freeze as your heart drops into your stomach. Your phone, the broken screen glinting in the overhead lights. 

“Oh—oh, really?” Dean says angrily, looking at Sam, and then at you, “What the hell is this?” 

“I, uh—“

“Why was your phone on top of the fridge, y/n?” Sam asks sternly. 

“Oh, it was on the fridge? Were you hiding it there? Guess you didn't count on the fact that Sasquatch here can see right onto the top of it, did you?” Dean's green eyes flash angrily at you.

You've been caught out, and your blush deepens. “I—it broke. I dropped it and stepped on it by accident.”

Dean sighs and scrubs his hand over his face. “Why didn't you just tell us that? Why the subterfuge about your phone?”

You squirm. “Well, um, you guys got mad at me because I left my phone here before, and I figured...you'd be mad at me again,” A couple of weeks ago you'd left your phone at the Bunker while you went to a doctor's appointment. This had resulted in your first ever spanking from Dean, and it wasn't something that you wanted to experience again anytime soon.

“So, you figured that lying about it was better then just coming clean?” Dean's face gets hard, “You know how I feel about lying, y/n,” he says in a deeper voice, “We need to be able to trust each other implicitly, and I can't trust you if you're gonna lie. About anything.” 

“I'm sorry!” you burst out, tears coming to your eyes. 

“This can't happen again, y/n,” Sam says, “You agreed to be trained by us, and that means you do what we tell you to do. Part of training is learning every aspect of the hunting life, not just ganking monsters, but things like research and cleaning weapons and making salt rounds. A lot of it is boring grunt work, but it's got to be done.”

“And it helps everything run smoothly when we all do our part,” Dean says. 

“Okay,” you whisper, “I'm sorry, I won't—next time you give me things to do I'll do all of them, I swear,” You take a deep breath and look up at them, giving them a little smile. Hopefully all is forgiven?

“Well, that's not good enough,” Dean says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Wh-what do you mean?” you ask, feeling a nervous pang in your stomach. 

“When our dad was training us, if we disobeyed orders or slacked on something, we'd get punished.” 

You gulp. Oh no, here it comes--

“Disobeying orders was a big no-no with him. And lying too. And I feel the same way he did,” Dean shifts his weight, “Sam and I talked, and we think that you should be punished with a week's worth of spankings.”

“A—a week?” you squeak breathlessly, “I didn't-- what—WHY?”

Dean holds up his hand and ticks each item off on his fingers. “You didn't fill the salt rounds. You didn't clean the guns properly. You didn't do the work in the library. You went into the gun range after you'd been told not to. And you lied about breaking your phone. That's five things, y/n, and I can't just let this go.” 

“But—but Dean--” you stop yourself, because you're whining.

“You don't think you've earned yourself a punishment?” Sam asks, “What should we do then, just say, 'well, it's okay, do better next time'. We can't do that, because our lives are often life and death. We all need to do our part and work together. And disobeying orders, breaking rules, and lying, all come with a consequence.” 

You gulp again. “Uh—five--does that mean--” you can't say it, you're embarrassed.

Dean nods. “Five spankings, yeah.”

“Uh—can we just get it over with now? All of it?” You look up at Dean imploringly. You don't want this hanging over your head!

Dean chuckles. “If I punish you for everything all at once, you won't have a butt left afterwards. No, it's going to be five nights of spankings. Starting tonight.” 

“To-tonight?” you ask nervously.

He nods again. “Yeah, after dinner. Unless you'd rather wait until bedtime?” 

You shake your head. Better to get it over with. If you had more courage you'd ask him to just do it now, but you're too nervous. 

 

It turns out that was the wrong thing to do. The guys unpack their duffles and start doing laundry- they've got a week's worth of dirty clothes to wash- and Dean brings in the weapons duffles and begins to sort through them as well. 

You start making dinner, hamburgers and fried potatoes and a big salad. The whole time you're thinking about it- the spanking that's coming. How bad is it going to be? Are you going to cry? Maybe Dean will go easy on you if you do everything he says and don't fight him at all. 

Your face burns with embarrassment as you remember the last time, how you cursed and fought him, how he pinned you down, and then said he had to spank the defiance out of you. Yeah, you'll just go along with him and be extra obedient, and maybe he'll give you a few swats and that will be it. 

You try to distract yourself, throwing together an apple cobbler for dessert as the hamburgers sizzle merrily on the stove. But you can't stop wondering and worrying. You look at the wooden spoons in the jar on the counter- the guys had told you that their Dad had used a paddle on them, and you wonder if Dean would ever do something like that. You shake your head and try to put it out of your mind- no sense in worrying about something like that as well. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Dean pushes his plate away. “Wow, that cobbler was great,” he says, smiling at you.

“Yeah, you really hit it out of the park with this meal, thanks, y/n,” Sam agrees. 

“You're welcome,” you tell them, beaming.

Sam sits forward and starts to stack the plates. “I'll clean up here, so that you guys can...take care of things.” 

Your mouth goes dry as you look over at Dean. 

“Go to your room, y/n,” he says, “I'll be along in a while.” 

You take a deep breath, wanting to say something, but you don't know what to say. You stand up and leave, feeling like you're walking to your doom. 

You pace the floor a few times, wondering what's going to happen. Then you sit down on your bed and hug your pillow. Your stomach is all twisted again, and your pulse is pounding. When is he going to come in? 

It takes him about 30 minutes. By the time he comes into the room, you're feeling frazzled with nerves. He closes the door and then looks around and walks over to your desk, pulling the chair out and turning it around. 

“Here's how this is gonna go,” Dean says, sitting down in the chair, “You're going to tell me what you did wrong, and we're going to discuss it, and then you're going to ask.” 

“Wh-what?” you are shocked. You didn't think he was going to expect you to talk about things! You don't want to have to analyze what you did and didn't do.

“You're going to ask me to spank you,” his clear green eyes are watching your face.

“Wha—why? I can't-- I-- that's humiliating!” you burst out. 

“Why is it humiliating? It's you admitting that you've done something wrong and needing to face the consequence. If that humiliates you, that's on you,” he says reasonably.

“Fine,” you huff. 

“All right, come here,” he points to the floor in front of him.

You set your pillow to the side and stand up, taking a deep breath, and then walk over to him. You stand there in the V of his legs, your head down. You can't look him in the eyes.

“Tonight, we're dealing with the salt rounds. What happened with that?” Dean folds his arms over his chest.

You feel yourself start to blush. “I—I-- you, uh, told me to fill 100 of them and I, uh, I...didn't.” 

“And why didn't you?”

Your face gets hotter. “Because, I, uh, I was busy--”

“Ah-ah,” he interrupts, “I don't want to hear any excuses. You own up to your misbehavior.” 

“Uh, I, uh...there's...there's no reason,” your voice trails off into an ashamed whisper. 

“And what's wrong with that?” 

“Well, I, I mean, you told me to do that, I mean it was a task you had given me, to get done while you were away, y'know...” you find yourself toe-ing the floor in front of you, just like a nervous kid does when they're in trouble. 

“Yes? And?” Dean prompts when you're quiet for a long moment. 

“And, uh—it was, it was wrong of me?”

“Yes, why?” he leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching your face.

“Well, uh--” you wrack your brain for a moment. You're so embarrassed that you can barely think straight, “It's, uh—you told me--”

“I gave you the task because it was something that needed to get done, and we need to make sure we have a ready supply on hand. Now, because of your slacking, we don't have the supply we might need on the next hunt, and we'll have to take time out to fill the rounds. Time that could be spent researching or tracking or working other aspects of the hunt,” he explains.

“Oh...yeah...” you sigh and bite your lip. God, this sucks. You're not used to being held accountable like this. This could be a potential life and death situation, this isn't like missing a phone call or a meeting in an office setting.

“So, why was that wrong to not do what I told you?” 

“Um, because, you needed to have the salt rounds ready to go for the next hunt, and now...they aren't ready. Because of me.” 

“Right,” he sits up straight, puts his hands on his thighs, and looks at you, “Anything else you have to say?”

“Well, uh,” you have an idea, “It was wrong of me, because...you told me to do something, and I—I disobeyed you. And I'm really really sorry.” 

He nods. “Yeah, that's what it comes down to, all right.” 

He unbuttons the cuff of his right sleeve and methodically begins to roll it up to beyond his elbow. Geez, how is his fore-arm so muscley? Are they supposed to look like that? And looking at his muscles you realize, Sam's hands are freaking huge, but Dean's hands are pretty big too. And if his arm muscles are anything to go by, his hands are probably pretty strong as well. Damn. 

“Well?” he looks up at you, his face serious, waiting. 

“Uh--” you take a deep breath. You don't know why this is so hard. “Dean, umm...I need...” no, you don't need this, well, he thinks you do, but you don't-- “would you, uh, would you...” you stop, and exhale, closing your eyes a moment, and then opening them.

You look up at him imploringly. “Dean I can't!” you plead.

“Why not?” he asks evenly.

Your face is red again. “Be-because, it's—it's—embarrassing, and I can't--”

“You can, and you will,” he says implacably.

“But—why do I have to?”

“Because I've told you to. And you're going to do what I tell you from now on, aren't you?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say.

“Uh-uh,” he shakes his head, “when you answer me it's 'yes, Dean', and 'no, Dean' when you're being punished, understand?”

“Ok—I mean, yes Dean,” you nod. 

“All right then, what do you need to say?”

“Um...umm...would you spank me, please,” you say in a rush, your face even more red than before.

“All right,” he nods, and reaches to take your arm, pulling on it, “Come here,” and you lower yourself over his waiting thighs. 

This position sucks- over Dean's lap when he's sitting in a chair, there's nothing to hold on to, your arms and legs are dangling on either side of his strong thighs, making you feel helpless. He's so tall that your toes barely touch the floor as you lay there. You grip the lower rung of the chair and place your other hand on his leg, waiting--

Dean holds your side, pulling you closer to his body, and you feel him shift, and then the first swat falls, and you hear it crack and feel it right after, and you inhale sharply from the sting. 

Another swat, and you gasp aloud, “Ah!” and start to struggle from the sting. It's instinctive, you try to get away from something causing you pain. 

“Please Dean!” you plead.

“Please what?” he asks. 

“Uh, pl-please—I-I know I screwed up, a lot, you know, and I told you I'm really really sorry and all, and I--” the words tumble out of you as you try to explain to him--

Dean shifts in the chair and you feel his thigh muscles moving against you. “Are you trying to talk me out of this?” he asks. 

“I--”

“'Cause that ain't happening. This is what's happening,” and then his hand starts falling on your ass, laying down swats in a stinging rhythm that brings tears to your eyes as you continue to struggle. 

You try to move your hips and roll off of his lap, and he in turn moves his thighs, and traps your legs in between his. Now your body is secured over his left thigh, and he pulls you against his torso and holds your side firmly. 

“Settle down,” he grounds out, sounding a little out of breath. He starts to spank again, faster this time so that there is no break between swats, and the stinging is building up to a burning on both cheeks. You realize that the position you're being held in now is worse, because you're tilted forward, which is exposing more of your ass to him. 

And he realizes this too, because he brings his palm down in quick succession on the sensitive undercurve, and you cry out at this new pain from the hard smacks. You wrap your arm around his leg and press your face into his jeans-clad calf, as the tears drips out of your eyes. His hand migrates to the crease where your ass turns into your thighs, peppering those spots and then the tops of your thighs with even harder swats. You're crying aloud now, kicking your feet a little bit, but you know it won't do anything to help with the pain. 

A few last spanks, right in the center, and he stops. Then you feel him pulling you up onto his leg, and you hiss when your butt hits his thigh. “You've been punished, and it's over,” he tells you, pulling you into his flannel chest. He puts his arms around you and you rest your face on the soft fabric as you sob. 

“I'm s-sorry, Dean.”

“I know,” he says, “Tomorrow you can work on getting the salt rounds done.”

“Yes, Dean,” you sniffle obediently. He smooths your hair back from your face and rubs your back as you calm down.

He waits in your room while you get ready for bed, and then tucks you in like you're a child, hugging and kissing you and pulling the covers up. You have to roll over onto your stomach because your butt is still throbbing. You fall asleep quickly, exhausted from all the struggling and stress and crying. 

In the morning, you roll over and immediately regret it. Your butt is still sore, dammit! It's SO not fair! You grumble as you roll onto your side. He expects you to submit to four more nights? Your butt is never going to stop hurting! What does he think you are, a kid? This is ridiculous, and you're not going to let him spank you again!

You throw the covers off and sit up, wincing. You're going to march right into the kitchen and tell him what you think of this treatment, that it's ridiculous and barbaric and you won't allow it anymore--

You huff to yourself as you walk down the hall, smelling coffee. Your stomach growls as you scent bacon, too, and the sweet smell of cinnamon. 

Dean is standing at the stove holding a spatula, and Sam is sitting at the kitchen island with his laptop open in front of him and a mug next to his elbow. They both look up at you as you stand in the doorway.


	11. A Week of Red Cheeks- 2nd & 3rd Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! This is a longer chapter, I just kept going and going...sometimes the muse is like an Energizer bunny! I've started a new fic, called "Undercover with the Winchesters", please check it out if you haven't already! Hope you enjoy this chapter and the new fic!  
> *********

Sam's face lights up as he looks at you. “Hey, good morning!” he says happily, getting up to go to you as you walk into the room. “We missed seeing you in the mornings!”  
He wraps his arms around you and gives you a bone-crunching hug, lifting you off the ground slightly. 

He sets you down, and you start to walk over to the coffee maker, but you're intercepted by Dean. He's put the spatula down, and he gives you a tight hug. “It's great to be back here again, instead of that cramped little motel room.” 

He lets you go, and leads you over to the counter. “Here's your favorite mug.” The mug has drawings of cats in different positions all over it, Sam had bought if for you a couple of months ago and you had immediately said it was your favorite and tried to use it every day. 

Dean pours coffee into the mug and hands it to you with a little bow. “Thank you,” you smile at him.

As you walk over to the island to sit next to Sam, he tells you, “I got some of those rolls in a can that you like.” 

All of the outrage and anger you had felt leaves you like air leaking out of a balloon. How can you be pissed at them when they're being so nice to you? 

The timer beeps on the oven, and Dean reaches in and removes a pan, setting it on the counter. Sam spreads icing on the warm rolls, and brings the pan over to the island, setting it next to the plate of bacon. 

“Eggs are comin' right up,” Dean says, and in a few moments he is serving portions of fluffy scrambled eggs onto your plates. He sits down on the other side of you and smiles, then takes some bacon. 

The three of you make quick work of the food and coffee. “I'll get the dishes,” you say, standing up. 

“When you're done there, we'll get started on the salt rounds,” Dean tells you. 

After you've loaded the dishwasher and gotten dressed, you meet Dean in the War Room. 

Dean gets out the salt and the shell casings, and leaves you to it. It's mindless work, and you set up your laptop and find some music to play to keep your mind occupied. 

He comes in to check on you a while later, and much to your chagrin, he tells you that you've been doing it wrong. He shows you how to tap the shell against the table to settle the salt down and fill it up a little more. He brings out a small scale to weigh the rounds, and shows you that they should be a certain weight. 

You have to go back and refill all of the ones you've filled already. You're grumbling about it for the next hour or so. 

After lunch you take a break, laying on your bed on your stomach and reading for a while. Dean comes to get you in the middle of the afternoon, and you resume filling the salt rounds. 

You're almost finished when you spill a new box of salt all over the floor. After you finish the last of the rounds, you go to the storage closet and get out the shop-vac. After vacuuming up all the salt, and then emptying the shop-vac and wrestling the huge contraption back into the closet, you're panting and sweaty. You take a long, hot shower and then change into your pajamas, figuring you might as well be comfortable now. 

Dean's ordered Chinese food for dinner, and he's set everything out on the table in the dining room. He looks you over as you walk into the room.

“Pajamas?” he asks.

You shrug. “Well, I'm not going anywhere, am I?” you sit down and reach for the sweet and sour chicken. “Hey, movie tonight after dinner?”

“Uhh...before or after your punishment?” he asks, “Or do you want to wait until bedtime?” 

“My, uh--” you squeak. For some reason, you had thought that since they were being nice to you this morning, and that you'd done what Dean had told you to do, that he'd forgo your spanking tonight. “Do—we have to?” you ask hesitantly.

Dean nods. “What, did you forget about it?” 

You shake your head. “No, I just thought...it wasn't gonna happen.” you feel yourself blushing. “I—I guess, after.” 

Sam comes into the room. “Movie tonight, guys? What are we going to watch?” 

They chat about the case they had just finished as you eat, but you don't say much. All you can think about is your impending spanking—your stomach has nervous butterflies in it, so you can't eat much. 

“I'll get this, you want to pop some popcorn Dean?” Sam stands up and starts clearing away the dishes. 

There is no way you're going to be able to sit through a movie, and concentrate enough to watch it, while you've got this hanging over your head. You get up and walk over to stand in front of him. “Um, Dean, can we—can we just get this over with now?” you ask quietly. 

He looks up at you. “You sure about that?” 

You nod. 

“I'll meet you in your room in a few, then,” he tells you. 

You sit on the edge of your bed, clasping your hand together, trying to calm your nerves.

Several minutes go by and you get even more anxious. When he knocks on the door, you startle, and stand up as you call “Come in.”

Dean walks in, closing the door behind him, and comes over to the bed, sitting down on the edge and taking your hand to pull you in front of him.

“So, tonight...this is for not doing the books,” he says.

You feel annoyed- that's ridiculous! “Wait a second-you're going to spank me because I didn't sort books?” you pull your hand out of his grasp, “That's stupid! How is that supposed to help you hunt?” 

“That's not the point, y/n. The point is that I gave you a task to do, and you didn't do it. Like I told you before, part of being a hunter is doing boring grunt work. What if you'd found a book that had information on the next hunt, that would really help us, but because you didn't do anything this time, we won't know about it?” he explains.

You fold your arms. “It—it's still stupid!” 

“You didn't do what you were told to do. And now you're being punished for it.”

“No!” you snap, glaring at him. 

He sighs. “I can see that this is going to go differently than it did last night. Come on, then,” he pats his thigh and motions to you. 

You start to take a step back, and quick as a flash, he reaches out and pulls you to him, and in seconds you are upended over his lap, your torso on the bed. He twists your arms behind you and pins them to your back, and then puts his leg over the back of yours. 

“Dammit!” you seethe as you struggle.

“All right...why are we here?” Dean asks, putting his hand on your right butt cheek.

You continue to struggle, getting angry. “Because—because you're—you're a-- a bossy jerk! This isn't fair! Now let me UP!” and you try to wrench yourself off of his lap. 

He begins to spank you. Between each swat there's a pause of a couple of seconds, and he covers all of your ass with hard swats that leave you breathless with the pain. Your pajamas are thin fabric, and don't offer much in the way of protection.

“I don't appreciate the things I tell you to do being called stupid. Or being called names,” Dean's voice is pitched lower now, the voice he uses when he's angry and trying to intimidate.

Okay, it's working. You shudder inside as he begins to spank you again, starting another round of swats. You're still feeling angry though, and you rage at him, “Stop! Let me UP!”

He does stop for a moment, but it's only to adjust his hold on you, pulling you closer and snugging you against his body. “You—don't--tell--me-- what—to--do--” he grounds out, and his voice is hard as iron, and makes you shiver. 

His hand starts to fall again, harder, faster swats, and you can't help it, tears fill your eyes and you begin whimpering. He spanks all the way down to the undercurve, and you yelp when his hand falls on the tops of your thighs several times. 

Then Dean pauses. “Let's try this again...why are we here?” his voice is still hard.

You don't answer right away, and he sighs again, angrily this time.

He swats that spot, right where butt turns into thigh, a couple times on each side, “Did I give you a job to do?” he asks in a stern voice. 

“Ow! Y-yes, you d-did,” you reply in a shaking voice.

Another set of swats in the same place. God, it stings! “And did you do the job I gave you?” 

“AH! N-No,” you say with shame.

Two spanks right above the crease, two spanks below the crease, and three right on the crease. “What did you do instead?” 

“ Ow, ow, ow!” you howl, and then you pause to catch your breath, “:I—I-- w-watched N-Net-netflix— “ You tense your butt, expecting more swats.

“Were you supposed to do that?”

“N-no,” you whisper.

“Relax your butt, if you tense like that it's gonna bruise,” he tells you.

You take another deep breath, and relax like he said.

He starts spanking again, from the crest of your cheeks down to the tops of your thighs, and you are bawling now.

“Why are we here?” he asks again.

“Be-because I, I didn't do wh-what you t-told me to do,” your chest is hitching, but you get the words out. 

“And what happens when you don't do what you're told?” he asks severely.

“I—I get p-punished,” you whisper.

“That's right,” he says in that same severe voice, and then his hand is falling again, and all you can do this time is lay there limp over his leg and sob. You have no fight left, you've earned every swat. 

When he is finished, he lets you go and pulls you upright. He holds you on his lap, with his legs open so that your rear end is between his thighs, and not touching anything, and he hugs you to his chest. You grab his flannel and bury your face in it, still crying. He rubs the back of your head as you sob. 

“I-I'm s-sorry, D-dean,” you sniffle, “I'm s-so so-orry.”

“No more attitude, huh?” he says gently.

“N-No, Dean,” your chest hitches. 

“You do what you're told from now on?”

“Yes, D-dean,” you agree.

You sit there with him for several minutes, calming down. Finally he shifts you a little and looks down at you. “Still feel like watching a movie?”

“Can I have an ice pack for my butt?” you ask.

He chuckles. “No, it's supposed to hurt, it's a punishment, remember? But you can lay on the sofa on your stomach.” 

He lets you stretch out on the sofa, laying on your side, with your head pillowed on his thigh, and he plays with your hair occasionally as you watch the movie. 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The next day, you work with Sam in the library, sorting some of the books. You're working on finding books that have to do with myths and legends, and he's finding spell books. 

Dean was working in one of the storage rooms, looking for old weapons. There were several rooms full of shelves filled with boxes and crates of all kinds of things. He walks into the library and sets a large cardboard box on one of the tables. 

You chuckle when you turn to look at him- he's got cobwebs on his shoulder and the side of his head. 

“Found this box with some books, they might be worth adding to the collection,” he opens the box and starts to remove several large tomes, piling them up. 

“Huh,” he says, reaching in for something, “Looks like this may have been a hunter's box of stuff.” He's holding what looks like a standard hunter's journal. He opens the front and reads, “Property of Theodore Morris, 1941.” 

Dean flips through the pages,commenting,“Rugaru...poltergeist...black shuck...kitsune...well, this guy certainly was a well-rounded hunter. Got a lot of good info in here, Sammy, we'll have to go through this later and compare it with Dad's journal.” 

Sam walks over and Dean hands him the journal, and Sam starts to look through it.

“Well, what's this?” Dean reaches into the box and pulls out a couple of small leather boxes. “It looks like Mr. Morris was quite the gentleman!” 

You walk over to look- in the boxes are fancy cuff-links and matching tie tack, gold with faceted emeralds in the center. There's another box with an antique pocket watch and fancy gold chain and fob.

“Those are beautiful,” you breathe, moving the tie tack so that the emeralds catch the light and sparkle. 

Dean pulls out another wooden box- this one has a shoeshine kit, complete with musty-smelling rags, a small bristled brush, and two cans of dried out black shoe polish. 

He pulls out another wooden box, larger, with ornamental carving on the top, and flips it open. Inside is an old-fashioned shaving kit- straight razor, little round brush for shaving cream, and a small silver bowl that is dark with tarnish. Next to it is a can of 'Dapper Dan Hair Pomade', a comb, and a large square hairbrush. 

Dean picks up the hairbrush and hefts it. “Wow this thing is heavy,” he comments. 

Sam glances at it. “Looks like rosewood,” he says off-handedly.

“How do you know this stuff, Sam?” Dean rolls his eyes.

“Well, I'd say all this is from the 1930s or '40s, and I know that rosewood was popular for a lot of things like brushes and tools,” Sam says, “it looks like it has natural bristles, probably boar bristles.” 

Dean looks at the bristles and grimaces. “Boar bristles? What the hell?”

“The natural bristles move the oil through the hair strands. Remember, people didn't wash their hair as often as we do, back then, and they used the oil in their hair as natural conditioner,” Sam explains. 

Dean looks at Sam. “Man, remember that older lady we got stuck with for a couple weeks, she ran that boarding house? She had a brush just like this, but she didn't use it for brushing her hair.”

“What did she use it for?” you ask curiously.

“She used it for spanking our asses,” Dean says, “You only got a couple of swats with it, Sammy, 'cause you were little, but man, she paddled me with it a couple times,” he shakes his head, “This thing packs a wallop.” 

“I remember,” Sam says, “I was scared of her after she smacked me with it the first time. And Dad was mad at her for spanking us, because he hadn't given her permission to.”

Dean looks at you. “Maybe we should keep this around, just in case,” he says. 

“Just in case...for what?” you ask, and your voice shakes a little. You're afraid of what he's going to say.

“In case there's ever another refusal of discipline like there was last night,” Dean says.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly gone dry. Dean raises his eyebrows at you and you drop your eyes to the floor. You don't want to think about being spanked with that thing, it looks deadly. 

“Well, we should get back to the books,” Sam says after a moment. 

You and he go back to the shelves and the sorting, and Dean packs everything back in the box. Except for the hairbrush. It sits next to the stack of books that Dean had unpacked. You wonder what he's going to do with it- if he would really use it on you. 

Dean cooks steak for dinner, with frozen french fries, and a bagged salad for you and Sam. He has to call the two of you away from the library, twice, because you and Sam are deep into making a list of the books you've sorted today. 

You volunteer to clean up after dinner, hoping it will win you brownie points with Dean. You spend extra time in the kitchen wiping down the counters and the tops of the stove.  
When you're done, and you turn to leave, Dean is leaning on the doorjamb, watching you with his arms folded. 

“You ready?” he asks.

“Uhh...not really,” you say slowly.

“C'mon, let's get this over with,” he says, beckoning you.

Your mouth goes dry again as you walk down the hall with him. You feel like a prisoner walking to their doom. Dean shuts the door after you, and walks over to the bed.

“Dean, you're not-- you're not gonna use that hairbrush, are you?” you ask nervously.

“No, I think that should be reserved for serious offenses,” he says casually. “Now tonight, we're gonna talk about the weapons. What would happen, if we were in the middle of a fight with a werewolf, and I pull out my .22, and it doens't fire properly, because you hadn't put it together the right way? What would happen, if I was using my rifle to take down a vamp, and because it wasn't cleaned well enough, it ended up not firing? There are a lot of malfunctions that can happen if a gun isn't cleaned correctly or put together the right way.” 

You listen to his speech with a growing sense of horror. Imagining that he or Sam could get hurt, because you hadn't done your job properly, makes your heart drop into your stomach. There are too many situations where a hunter's life depends on their gun, and the weapons need to be in perfect working order, all the time. And you really fucked this one up. 

“I—I'm sorry,” you say, tears filling your eyes, “I'm really sorry, if something ever happened to you—and it was my fault--” you run over and throw yourself at Dean, breaking into sobs.

“Shh, shh,” Dean puts his arms around you and pulls you to his flannel chest, “Now do you see why it's so important? Why I was so upset with you?”

“Yes,” you nod against him, “I do, and I—I deserve this, I really fucked up, and I'm sorry!” 

Dean puts his finger under your chin and tilts your head up to look him in the eyes. “You agree that you should be punished for this?” 

“Y-yes, Dean, you—you should spank me,” you say, “I—I didn't clean the guns right, and if something had happened to you... I de—deserve to be punished!” you sob. 

He leads you over to the bed and sits down, and you go willingly over his lap. You lay your torso on the bed, your arms under you, clutching the covers, waiting for it to begin. You feel so guilty and horrible, you want this to happen, to cleanse you of this awful feeling. 

Dean starts spanking you slow, with a slight pause between each smack, so that you can feel the sting, and he covers every inch of your butt with hard swats until your whole ass is burning. You're sobbing quietly into the blanket as his hand falls over and over.

He starts another round of swats, harder, smacking the same spot a couple times in a row, and you find yourself kicking your feet a little as the pain builds. 

Once he reaches the undercurve, he stops. “What's going to happen the next time you have to clean the guns?” he asks.

“I—I'm going to clean th—them properly,” you sob.

“And what's going to happen if you don't?” 

“I—I'll be punished,” you say.

“You will not slack on cleaning weapons, ever. Our lives depend on it,” he says sternly, and his hand starts to fall again. This time his palm is relentless, peppering your ass with more stinging swats, and he lands several on the undercurve. 

“I'm sorry! I'm s-sorry!” you howl, as his hand falls on your upper thighs, and you kick your feet again.

“No kicking,” he growls, and spanks your thighs harder. You wail loudly, and then the fight goes out of you as he continues, moving up to the middle of your butt and then your sit-spots. The guilt you were feeling ebbs away as the fire builds, and he lands several hard swats to your already scorching undercurve to finish up. 

When he pulls you onto his lap, you throw your arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder for a long time. You'd never forgive yourself if something happened to them.  
Dean rubs your back and holds you until you are calm, and then he lays down with you in bed, spooning with you until you fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm...what do you think Dean should do with that hairbrush that he found?


	12. A Week of Red Cheeks- The Consequences of Lying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Edge_of_Clairvoyance for Beta-ing and allowing me to pick your brain and giving me suggestions, you're awesome! Mindy, I used another of your ideas--I think you and I have similar outlooks on our OC, so thanks for sharing! Hope you enjoy!  
> **********

The next morning you wake up early. You're not looking forward to dealing with the guns- you still feel some residual guilt from last night. You don't know if Dean will make you clean them again, or just watch you disassemble and then reassemble them. He's a stickler for doing things right, and you don't want to be stuck doing the same task over and over again until he's convinced you've done it correctly. 

Maybe...maybe you can fake being sick. That way, they'll leave you alone most of the day, you won't have to do any work, you won't get another spanking, and they'll do nice things like bring you soup and drinks in bed. 

You sneak off to the bathroom closet where the first aid kit is kept, and find the ear thermometer that Sam had bought when you had a cold. How can you convince them that you are sick? You get out a washcloth and wet it, and take it and the thermometer back to your room. You hear movement in the kitchen, so you need to hurry. 

You hide the ear thermometer in the bottom drawer of your desk, and then take the washcloth and run it along your hairline, and squeeze some of the water onto the front of your shirt. Hopefully it will convince them that you're hot and sweaty with fever. Then you shove the washcloth under your bed.

You get another idea- you find a hand-warmer in your desk drawer, it's a small plastic packet that has chemicals in it. When you twist it, it causes a chemical reaction and makes heat. You twist the pack, and then rest it on your forehead for a few minutes. It does make you feel warm, and you know it's heating up the skin of your head. 

You take it off after a while, and do some scrolling on your phone while laying in bed. Once you hear footsteps pass by in the hallway, you put the packet back on your forehead for a couple of minutes. 

You hide the pack and your phone under your pillow when someone knocks on the door.

“Come in,” you call in a croaky voice. 

Sam comes into the room. “Hey, you're usually up by now, I wanted to check on you,” he says as he comes over to your bed.

“I don't feel well,” you cough, and then get annoyed with yourself, because it sounds fake. 

“What's wrong?” he asks.

“Just...feel achy, and hot, and my throat's sore,” you rasp.

“Hmm.” he places a palm on your forehead as he looks down at you with concern. He touches the front of your night shirt where it's damp. “I'll be back.”

He leaves the room, and after a couple of minutes, you hear him calling to Dean. Then they both come into your room. 

“--really hot, it worries me,” Sam is saying.

Dean comes over to the bed and puts his hand on your forehead. “You are hot, kiddo,” he says, “I guess we'll have to put off cleaning the guns 'til you're better, huh?” 

“Yeah,” you say, “and no spanking either, right?” you look up at him hopefully.

“Y/n, have you seen the ear thermometer?” Sam asks. He has an old, battered duffle that you haven't seen in a while. He walks over and sets it on the desk.

“No, I haven't. It's not in the bathroom?” You try to appear innocent, and you look down at your hands. When you look up, Dean is watching you. 

“No, it's not. I got the travel first aid kit out of the trunk—here we go,” Sam pulls out a digital thermometer, and walks over to you. Oh crap! You didn't even think about the fact that there might be more than one thermometer around! 

He presses a button and it beeps, and then he frowns, and presses the button again. He sighs. “The battery just died. Dammit.” 

“Hmm,” Dean says, “That's unfortunate.” 

Sam sets the thermometer down on your bedside table. “Let me look at your throat, and see if it's red,” he says, picking up his phone and turning the little light on. He leans down and looks into your mouth. “Well, it doesn't actually look red at all,” he says, turning the light off. “When did you start feeling bad?”

“I just...woke up in the middle of the night feeling crappy,” you say.

“Well, I guess you should stay in bed today and rest, just in case,” Sam says, touching your forehead again. 

Dean has crossed his arms over his chest, and he's still watching you. “Uh huh.” He crosses over to the duffle and roots around in it. “Ah, found it,” he holds something up. It looks like a white pen. He walks over to stand next to Sam, and takes the tube apart. He pulls something shiny out-- it's an old-fashioned glass thermometer. 

“I haven't seen one of those in years,” you say.

“Yeah, our Dad used the glass ones back in the day, said that those digital thermometers were too expensive,” Dean says casually, “This is the only one that's left,” He peers at it, and then shakes it, and looks at it again. “Looks like it still works,” he says, “Hey, Sam, can you grab the Vaseline?”

“Uhh...what do you need that for?” you ask worriedly.

Dean looks at you. “Well, y/n, this happens to be a rectal thermometer. And it's all we got, so...” he shrugs.

You sit up and grab your comforter, pulling it up to your chin. “I don't think so!”

Sam has gone over to the duffle and taken out a small rectangular pot of petroleum jelly. He brings it over and removes the lid. “Look, I know this is uncomfortable, but I'm concerned that your fever is really high,” he tells you. 

“Um, no. Just no,” you tell them.

“Y/n...” Sam says. 

Dean takes the container out of Sam's hand and dips the thermometer in it. “Lie down and roll over onto your belly,” he says, looking at you. 

“I will not!” you huff, clutching the comforter tighter.

“Listen, I have no problem making you do this, if I have to,” Dean says, “it'll make it a whole lot more uncomfortable for you, though. Turn over, now,” his voice is stern. 

You gulp, your mouth going dry. Dean looks determined, and like he's ready for a fight. 

“All right!” you exclaim, “All right, look, I'm—I'm not sick! I—I was faking having a fever, okay?”

“What?” Sam looks stunned, “How in the world--”

You reach under your pillow and pull out the hot pack. “I used this on my forehead, and wet my shirt with water,” you tell them. 

Dean narrows his eyes. “I thought so,” he says dryly. 

“What? You—you didn't believe me?” you ask him.

He shrugs. “I could tell you were lying.”

“I—I-- how?” you ask.

“You have a tell, a thing you always do when you're about to lie, and you did it.” 

“What? What did I do?” 

“I'm not telling you,” he takes the thermometer out of the jar. “All right, y/n, let's go,” he says.

“Dean, no! I'm not sick!” you protest. 

He smirks at you. “Maybe I should check, just to be sure.” 

“Don't you dare!” you huff. 

Dean puts the thermometer back in the jar and walks back to the desk, setting it next to the duffle, then turns to you, folding his arms over his chest. “You lied to us, again,” he says. “And you're already in trouble because you lied about your phone being broken,” his voice deepens, and you shiver a little. 

Sam looks angry. “I can't believe this,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Take care of this, Sam, I need to have a talk with y/n,” Dean says in a voice as hard as stone.

You gulp again, and watch as Sam wipes the thermometer off with a tissue, places it back into the case, and then puts everything back in the duffle. He leaves the room, and Dean looks down at you. “You just got yourself in a whole lot more trouble, y/n,” he tells you, “Got anything to say for yourself?”

“Uh—Dean, I just—I'm sorry! I didn't-- I mean, I felt so bad about things, and I was worrying about what would've happened because I didn't clean the guns right--” your voice chokes and your eyes fill with tears. 

“Why didn't you talk to me about this? Why'd you have to lie?” his voice is stern. 

“I—I don't know!” you wail. 

“Look, you were punished for the guns, we're square on that, you don't have to worry about anything happening, because you're going to do it right from now on, right?” 

You nod. “I can't help it, though—I'm a worrier.” 

“Well, now you're gonna have to worry about your butt,” he tells you, “Stay put, I'm not done,” he turns, and leaves the room. 

You sit there, fretting over what he's going to do next, what he's going to say. Is he talking to Sam about both of them punishing you? After all, you lied to both of them. You don't think your butt could handle another Winchester tag-team spanking. 

You don't know how long you sit there, but finally they come back into the room. “You've lied to us not once, but twice now,” Dean says, “and because of that, you're going to be getting a spanking right now, so you'll have the whole day to sit on your sore ass and think about how lying got you in trouble.”

“N-now?” you look at both of them. 

“Yes, now,” Sam says in a stern voice,“Our Dad always said that sitting on a punished butt focused the attention, so it'll be good for you.”

“How can I be focused on cleaning the guns when my butt will be sore?” you complain.

“Because you know that if you screw around anymore you'll get another spanking, so you'll concentrate on doing a good job,” Dean says. 

Sam pulls the chair out from under your desk, and then unbuttons his sleeve and begins to roll it up. Oh crap. 

“Come here, y/n,” he sits down in the chair. The muscles in his forearm move as he beckons you. 

“Uh--” you look at him, and then at Dean, and gulp. “But—but I thought—Dean--”

“No, I'm spanking you for this,” Sam says, “Now come here.” 

“But-- I—I don't want--” you protest.

“Y/n...”Sam says warningly.

“Look, I admitted that I lied, and I'm sorry, okay? Can't we just—let it go for now?” 

“No. We can't,” Sam's voice is firm. He points to the floor next to his right leg. “Last chance to get over here.” You see the little muscle in his jaw twitch. Double crap.

Your response is to scoot back on your bed so that you're pressed against the headboard and pull the covers tight against your chest. “I—I don't want--”

Dean huffs and rolls his eyes. “This is ridiculous,” he says, walking over to the bed. He leans over and yanks the covers out of your hand, then grabs your wrist as he is sitting down. In one fluid movement you are over his lap, pinned down on the bed with his arm across your back and his leg over top of yours.

“Dean! No!” you yelp, struggling to push yourself up. 

His hand begins to fall without preamble, smacking your ass over and over in a harsh rhythm as you screech again. You try to reach back and block and he simply grabs your hand and pins it to your back, and then you can barely move at all. 

“Dean, stop!” you exclaim, kicking your feet, which does nothing to alleviate the sting building up in your rear end. The swats continue, harder and faster, and before long the tears are spilling out of your eyes.

“I'll stop when you've decided to behave yourself and obey Sam,” he says, “You gonna go over there and lay yourself over his knee for your spanking?”

You turn to look back at him, horrified. “Wh-what? N-no! I—I don't—aaahh!” you screech as Dean's hand starts to fall again.

“Dean, Dean, wait--” you wail, “I—I thought-- you—you're s-spanking me n-now--”

“This is because you're not following orders, little girl.” He doesn't let up, just keeps on spanking until you give up struggling and wriggling on his lap, and just lie there, your face buried in the blankets. 

You feel the bed dip and raise your head. Sam is sitting down next to Dean, and you don't hear what he's said, because you were crying. Before you can speak to ask what's happening, Dean has released you and then lifted your torso, and Sam takes ahold of you, and they've transferred you from Dean's lap to Sam's!

“Wha—no, pleeeease!” you screech, trying to fight your way off Sam's lap. 

His legs, being longer, stick out more, and he's holding you differently than Dean was, and now you're dangling over his knees like a small child. You grab on to his jeans-covered calf and hang on.

“Saaaammm!” you whimper, and then his huge hand lands on your ass. 

“You will not lie to us, y/n,” he says in a loud, stern voice, “About anything, whether it's about a hunt or your health or anything. Is that clear?” 

“Yes! Yes! I—I won't! Please!” you wail again, trying to twist your body off of his thighs. He pins you there, and continues to spank you, his giant paw making the sting turn into a fire on your butt.

He pauses for a moment. “Did you do something with the ear thermometer?” he asks in a deep voice.

“Y-yes, I—I h-hid it. I-in my de-desk drawer,” you admit.

You hear him sigh angrily, and then he tilts you forward slightly, and you screech as he begins to apply his palm to the under curve and the crease where butt turns into thigh. You can't even speak anymore as he continues to spank you, landing swat after swat after swat, you just press your face to his leg and cry. 

“No—more--lying--little girl,” he grounds out, and you shiver at the stern tone in his voice. “Understand?”

“Y-y-yes, Sam,” your chest is hitching. 

He pulls you up to sit on his lap, and you wince as your butt hits his thigh. He holds you until you've calmed, rubbing your back and shoulders. “Shh, it's all right,” he soothes.

Dean leans over and grabs some tissues for you. You wipe your eyes and blow your nose. “After breakfast, we'll get started on the guns,” he says.

“Do I have to?” you whine.

“Well, you're not sick, so yeah.” 

“I-I'm sorry I l-lied,” you sniffle. 

Sam hugs you again. “Make sure it doesn't happen again,” he says sternly, “If you lie, we can't trust you, and if we can't trust you, then you can't hunt with us.”

You gulp, and tears come to your eyes again. You didn't even think about the possible repercussions of lying, and you feel bad again. “I'm sorry!” you wail, starting to cry again.

“Shh, c'mere,” Dean pulls you onto his lap, and wraps his arms around you. “You've been punished for it, and you're not gonna do it again, right?” He looks into your eyes, smoothing your hair back from your face.

“Right,” you nod.

“Then let it go, okay?” He tightens his arms around you and you rest your head on his flannel chest and wrap your arms around him. Sam leans closer to him, and you reach one arm out and put it around Sam's broad chest, holding on to his shoulder. He puts an arm around you as well.

After a few minutes of snuggling, the three of you walk out to the kitchen to eat breakfast. Dean had made some scrambled eggs and sausage, and he heats a plate of food for you in the microwave. You eat standing at the kitchen island, not wanting to sit down right now. 

After you've eaten, you change into a t-shirt and comfortable sweats. You meet Dean in the library, where he's got the guns all spread out on one of the large tables. You wince as you sit down- the chairs are wood, and it's not going to be comfortable sitting on your sore ass today.

He stands next to you, and watches you take apart and clean one of the guns, and then he takes the gun apart again and puts it back together, talking you through it. 

He hands it to you, and you take the gun apart and put it back together again. “Good,” he says, taking the gun out of your hands again. “Let me go test this out.” He leaves the room, and you get started on another gun. 

In a few minutes he is back, and sets the gun down on the table. “It fired just fine,” he tells you, “Make sure you clean it again.”

You stop what you're doing and look up at him. “Wh-what? C'mon, it's not that dirty, you just fired a couple rounds!”

Dean puts his hand on the table and leans down over you. “You're going to clean the guns because I said so,” his voice is quiet and hard, and you feel a nervous pang in your belly. “I want to make sure you know what you're doing, and you know that I think the best way to learn something like this is through repetition. So you're gonna clean the guns over and over, until I'm satisfied,” he gives you a look, “Got it?”

“Yes, Dean,” you say, your obedient tone masking the annoyance you feel at him. 

He watches you take apart and clean the next couple of guns, and then he picks them up and leaves the room with them. You've started taking apart another one when he returns, setting the guns back on the table. “Good job with these, make sure you clean them again.”

You turn and glare up at him. “Really, Dean? Really?”

Dean folds his arms over his chest and lowers his head, frowning at you. “Yes, little girl, really. What did I say before?”

“I know what you said, I just—I'm going to be here all day, and it's just—ridiculous!” you huff. 

“You keep mouthing off, you're gonna end up over my knee again. Is that what you want?” his voice is stern again.

You feel yourself starting to blush. “No, Dean.” 

“Then keep cleaning.” He turns and walks away from you. He leaves the room for a while, and then when he returns, he's got a couple of cans of soda. He sets one on the table. “Brought you a drink.”

“Thanks,” you say gratefully, taking a sip. 

He picks up the gun you've just finished putting back together, and walks out of the room. You have to bite your tongue in order not to call after him with some snark. 

When he returns and sets the gun on the table, you have to struggle to keep your temper. “Okay, that's enough,” you tell him.

“What?” he asks, in a confused tone.

“No more. If you want to test out the guns, you're gonna clean them after. I'm tired of re-cleaning, I know how to clean guns properly, and I'm gonna do it right from now on. You can stop being a hard-ass, okay?” 

Dean just shakes his head, and picks up another gun. He turns and starts to leave the room, and you've had it. You shove a bunch of the cleaning supplies off the table in frustration. As the brushes and rods hit the floor with a clatter, Dean stops, and turns back around. 

“What are you doing?” he asks in a hard voice.

“I'm done! I'll clean the ones that haven't been cleaned yet, but if you fire any more, you're cleaning them again!” You grab a handful of rags and throw them down onto the floor.

Dean comes back over to you and sets the gun down. “You're gonna pick all of that up off the floor and stop acting like a brat.” 

You cross your arms and glare up at him. “No! Not until you say you're not going to make any more work for me!” 

“Uh-uh, no way. You don't get to tell me what to do or bargain with me, little girl. You're gonna do what I say, and that's that. Now pick—everything—up.” his voice is steel now.

“NO!”

He steps forward, pulls you to a standing position, and then pushes your torso down onto the table. Before you even have a chance to say anything, his hand has smacked your butt a couple of times. You gasp and try to push yourself up, but he puts his hand on your back and holds you there. 

“No more mouthing off,” he swats you-- “no more refusing,” another swat lands-- “no more bratting,” --another, harder swat falls-- “I've had ENOUGH,” and he spanks you a few more times, right on the under curve, right where your ass is going to hit the seat, and you cry out. 

“You done with your little tantrum? Because I can keep going, although it's going to be with you over my knee.” 

“Y-yes,” you say, shifting your weight. Your butt it stinging again, and you don't want to make it worse. 

Dean lets you up, and you straighten up. “Clean the last couple of guns, and then you can be done,” he assents. 

“Thanks,” you reply gratefully. You walk over and pick up everything that fell onto the floor, and then finish the cleaning standing up. Once everything is done, you put the supplies back in the cardboard box and Dean loads the guns back into the weapons duffle. 

“I'm gonna go take a shower,” you tell him. 

“I'll get this stuff put away,” he shoulders the duffle, and picks up the box. 

After your shower, you're feeling more relaxed, although your butt is still a little tender. As you're drying your hair, you see your door open in the mirror and turn.

Sam is standing there in the doorway. “Hey, I knocked, but I guess you didn't hear me because of the hair dryer. You want to...go out for lunch, grab a burger or steak, and then shoot some pool?” 

“That actually sounds great!” you smile at him. “Let me get dressed, and then we can go.” 

Once you've finished with your hair, you decide to dress up a little bit. No flannel and jeans for you this time- instead, you pull out a long v-neck sweater and a pair of leggings. You put on a little bit of blush, eyeliner, and tinted lip balm, and complete your outfit with a pair of dainty hoop earrings. When you walk out to the library to meet the guys, they both give you a once-over. 

“Well, you look...different,” Dean says.

“You're supposed to say I look nice, dude!” you smack his arm. 

“I was getting to that...it's kinda nice to see you in something other than flannel,” Dean actually looks a little bit shy, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Aww, thanks!” You grin, “You don't look half-bad yourself!” He's wearing a dark green button down shirt that compliments his eyes. Sam's wearing a button-down that has vertical blue and tan stripes. “That's different than what you usually wear, I like it,” you tell him. 

Sam blushes slightly. “Thanks,” he says. 

The three of you walk out to the Impala, and Dean drives to a restaurant that has a bar attached to it. After a long lunch of good food that is most decidedly not diner food—steak, garlic mashed potatoes, steamed veggies, fresh baked bread, and 'Death By Chocolate' cake for dessert- you walk over to the bar with the guys, grab a pitcher of beer and a pool table, and the three of you spend the rest of the afternoon drinking and chatting as you play. You end up staying there through the dinner rush, eating a bunch of appetizers for dinner as you keep playing. When you get back to the bunker that evening, you think how nice it is that you can go to bed without having to worry about a spanking tonight...and you feel an anticipatory stirring of butterflies in your stomach as you think about tomorrow, which is the last day of your week-long punishment. Maybe because it's the last one, Dean will go easy on you. Maybe?


	13. A Week of Red Cheeks- The Last Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for those of you who might be squicked out by the use of implements- Dean brings out the hair brush in this chapter.  
> **********  
> I'm taking a hiatus from this story for now. Only 4 people commented on chapter 11 and 3 on chapter 12, so I'm guessing that people are losing interest. I feel like I kinda "wrote myself into a corner" having to come up with a week's worth of punishments, and it was a little hard to figure out ways to make each one be "fresh and new" so that it wasn't the same-old-same-old. I want to concentrate on "Undercover with the Winchesters" for now, so after that's finished, I will come back to this if there is still interest.  
> ***********

Dean's seen your ass before. You'd had to take your pants off so that he could bandage your upper thigh once, when you got injured on a hunt. You and he had ended up getting covered in ectoplasmic goop from a pack of roaming spirits, and had had to hop in the shower together. Neither of you were even considering sexy times because of how gross it felt being covered in the stuff-- both of you had just been concerned with cleaning it off as quickly as possible. You'd tried to keep your backs turned, and looked everywhere except at the other person, but you'd washed each other's backs, including the butt, and then afterwards you'd been too embarrassed to say anything to him.

But now, this is different. And altogether a humiliating position. You're laying over his left leg with his right leg thrown over your ankles to hold you in place. Your torso is resting on the bed with your tear-drenched face buried in the blankets, and your freshly-roasted ass is throbbing, courtesy of the eldest Winchester.

He's just bared said ass, and you've screeched a protest and tried to throw your hand back to cover your stinging cheeks. “Pleeeease, Dean, n-n-no!” The idea that he can see your rear end in this position--that he's pulled down your pajama pants and panties, and you're laying there with your bare butt waiting to be spanked, like a naughty child--is both humiliating and embarrassing. 

He leans over and picks the hairbrush up from the end of the bed. He'd brought it in tonight, and set it down before beckoning you to him. He'd calmly explained that going into the gun range on your own was putting yourself in danger, which was a more serious offense, and serious offenses were punished with things like paddles and belts. When you'd pointed out that he was holding the brush, and not a belt or paddle, he'd said, “There's a reason that this is called a paddle brush,” and then smacked it against his open palm. The loud WHAP had made you jump, and then your stomach clenched nervously.

Your stomach knots up even more as he straightens up and then shifts his legs slightly so that your hips are higher, thus baring your ass even more. 

“Move you hand outta the way,” he says in a stern voice. 

“Please, Dean, not like th--this, please? Wh-why?” your voice is pleading. 

“I told you, y/n, I've got to be able to see what I'm doing, so that I don't bruise you. Best way for that is on the bare.”

“I—I'll do your laundry for a week. I'll give you a foot massage every night at bedtime. I—I'll wash Baby for you!” you say in a rush, trying to convince him not to do this. 

“Sorry, kiddo. You've got to learn that putting yourself in danger isn't tolerated any more than lying.” 

“I—I won't, o-okay?” your chest hitches, “You've already blistered my butt-- at least, that's what it feels like.”

Dean takes your hand and moves it, pinning your wrist to the small of your back. And then you cringe as you feel a cool, hard surface resting against the hot skin of your right cheek. 

A second later it's gone and then you hear a loud WHACK! as the brush lands. Pain explodes on that spot, unlike anything you've felt before.

“Ohmygod sonofaBITCH it hurts Dean!” you screech, trying to twist your torso off of his lap. 

He pauses. “What-- did I-- tell you --before? No swearing during your punishment!” his voice is low and hard. He swats the top of each thigh with the brush and you shriek with each blow. “OW I'msorrym'sorrym'sorry! Pleeeeease!” 

He lets go of your hand and moves you so that your body is further forward on the bed, and then he pulls you towards him, pinning you down with his arm across your lower back. You feel his hand gripping your side, and then he starts. The brush is heavy and wide, and it lands with a heavy thud that feels like the sting goes deeper into your skin than just a hand- spanking. 

You yelp loudly as the brush cracks down again and again, pleading with him, “Please—AH! No—more—OW! Lemme go!”

“I don't think you're taking this seriously enough,” he says.

“You-” WHAP!  
“will not--” WHAP!  
“put yourself--” CRACK!  
“in danger--” “SMACK!  
“and you will--” WHAP!  
“follow--” SMACK!  
“my--” “SMACK!  
“ORDERS!” and then a volley of swats is raining down on your sit spots and the crease right where your ass meets thigh. 

Your voice is hoarse from screeching and you're sobbing aloud as the brush does one final circuit of the inferno that is now your ass. You feel Dean shift as he puts the brush on the bed. 

After a couple of minutes he lifts you up. Your pants and panties had been kicked off but you don't care. He shifts back on the bed, spreading his thighs, and you kneel between them and throw your arms around him. He holds you tightly as you bury your face in his flannel shoulder and continue to cry. You don't think your butt is ever going to stop stinging, and it feels like it's glowing hot. 

After you've calmed somewhat, Dean says, “C'mere,” and moves over to the head of your bed. He lays down and pulls you down next to him and you lay propped against him so that your butt isn't touching anything. He puts his arm around you and plays with your hair as you snuggle in to his side. 

“Don't want anything to happen to you, y/n,” he says softly, “I know it sucks when I gotta punish you, but you're important to me- to both of us—and I need to make sure that you're following orders and staying safe, y'know?” 

“Yes, Dean,” you murmur, as you relax into his solid warmth. You slide your arm across his chest, and he continues to stroke your hair. The last thing you feel as you fall asleep is him kissing your forehead.


	14. JohnxDaughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, to be honest I'm nervous about publishing this chapter. This is a JohnxDaughter fic. I've written a couple sisfics/daughterfics and had originally published this one when I first started publishing the discipline one-shots. I took it down after some nasty comments about it. So I've re-written it and decided to publish since some of you had asked about my daughterfics.  
> This is completely different than the rest of the chapters- it's not the same OC either. This takes place in an AU where John disciplines his children no matter how old they are. The OC is 18 years old and Sam and Dean are supposed to be in their early 20s.  
> Please let me know if you like this, and if you'd like to see more of this type of thing!  
> Content Warning for disciplinary spanking of an older teen by a parent and spanking with a belt.  
> ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

One thing I had forgotten was how much of a stickler John Winchester was for rules and chain of command and following orders. And if you broke rules or ignored the chain or command or disobeyed orders, especially his orders, then there was hell to pay, and you'd find yourself the recipient of a sore ass. 

He was an old-fashioned guy in a lot of respects. Meat and potatoes, whiskey after dinner (and lots of other times), make your bed every morning, military-style. And he believed in corporal punishment. It was part of training and also a consequence. You messed up during training, you got your ass busted. You didn't listen, or mouthed off, or disobeyed, you'd find yourself over a log in the middle of the woods or bent over the trunk of the Impala while he pulled his belt out of the loops. He'd been military, survived a war, and so his mindset was, you learn what you're being taught and you do it, no questions asked. In the field, on a hunt, you can't stop to ask a question or complain about a tactic or change your mind. You get your orders from your CO and you follow them- to do otherwise would mean that either you or someone else could end up injured or dead. 

And that's what I had done, I had screwed up a hunt- I hadn't followed orders, and I had put myself in danger, and I had almost gotten seriously injured. Three strikes against me. I was definitely in for it.

I had been living with Bobby Singer for the last 8 months so that I could finish High School and graduate, and now that I had, I was In Training with my family to be a full-time hunter. Growing up, Dad had taught me alongside my brothers but it had been decided- by them, not me-- that I would finish my schooling. Sam wanted me to try college but I didn't. I knew that my place was with my father and brothers. 

And it was going hard. As I'd gotten older I'd butted heads with Dad, much like Sam had. He'd left us alone a lot over the past couple of years, and Dean had been in charge of us. Dean was easier on me, plus I could pull the “cute little sister” card with him and get out of any punishment he might decide, usually. 

I was newly graduated from high school, 18 years old, unused to the 'John Winchester School of Training', and full of myself. I argued and questioned and made a pain in the ass of myself. 

And now I was about to get some serious pain in my ass, for my insubordination. 

The Impala pulled into the motel parking lot, and we all got out. The trunk was opened and our duffles handed out, and then orders given, “We meet back here to go for a meal at eighteen hundred.” 

Sam and Dean muttered, “Yessir,” shooting worried glances at me and then turning away.

This place was crowded but it was the only one Dad had been able to find. Dad and I were in a room on the corner and my brothers were in a separate room further up. I was glad, because it meant that they wouldn't be around when I got my ass whipped. I hated to get punished in front of them, I hated crying in front of them. John Winchester hadn't believed in taking his kids into separate rooms for punishments, either. He hadn't been able to afford two rooms very often when we were growing up, so it was usually the 4 of us crammed into a tiny cheap motel room. And if one of us misbehaved, over the knee we went, right then and there. Afterwards we'd stumble over to a bed and crawl under the covers to hide. If we all got into trouble together, then he'd make us all watch while one of us got it. We had to stand or sit at attention, in a line, and he'd lecture us, and then he'd call each one of us over to the bed or the chair. And then across his lap we'd go, and the other two would have to watch. He always said, “You get into trouble together, you get punished together.” It could be a powerful deterrent to not bicker and snap at each other, because none of us liked getting punished in that way. 

He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping in ahead of me to assess the room and make sure it was safe. I walked in behind him and closed the door quietly. There was one dim light on between the beds; as I walked over to them, he turned on the lights by the sofa.  
He thumbed the deadbolt and dropped the keys onto the small table next to the door, then walked over and placed his duffle at the head of the bed closest to the door. He or Dean always took that bed, whatever room we were in.

I set my duffle on the end of the other bed, and unzipped it, intending to get out a change of clothes and take a shower. I glanced over awkwardly, not sure what to say. How do you start the conversation where you ask when your dad is going to whip your butt?

“Come here,” his voice was low and terse. 

He was standing at the end of the bed. I walked over and stood in front of him, unconsciously assumed the position he'd required us to stand in, a modified military stance, but not as severe-- spine straight, head up, arms folded behind your back. No slouching or staring at your feet or mumbling. Any of that was certain to get a cuff to the head.

“Dad I'm sor-”

“What the hell was that?” his bark cut me off, “You were told, no, you were ordered, to stay put, stay in postion, and then I turn and you're moving over towards the front? What in God's name were you thinking?”

“I—I--” my mouth opened and closed, like a fish gasping for air. We had been staking out a nest of vamps, and Dean had his crossbow out- he was excellent with the bow. Sam was going to lure them out and we were going to take them out as they came out of the building. 

They had started to come out and I had gotten the brilliantly stupid idea of being able to take more out if I was closer, and I had moved from my position. I hadn't been paying attention, and then all of a sudden I had felt something whistle by my side and I was pinned to a tree. 

Dean's arrow had sliced through the side of my jacket and just nicked the side of my torso. It was a one in a million shot, a miracle that Dean hadn't shot me through the gut. After they had examined and dressed the wound- a minor one, but still- I had been locked in the Impala while they went back and cleaned out the nest. 

Dad had scolded me- I had disobeyed orders, I had moved from my position, I had put myself in danger and the hunt in jeopardy, plus now the vamps could smell my blood, making it more dangerous for all of us. 

“When we get back to the room you, me, and my belt are gonna have a talk,” he had growled, and I had squeaked, “Yessir.” as I got into the back seat. 

“Well, I've already said everything I needed to say back at the nest. Let's go,” he unbuttoned his right sleeve and began to roll it up, revealing a muscular forearm. After all these years, Dad was still all muscle and bulk, and even though Sam towered over him now, I had no doubt that Dad would win in a fight. 

I swallowed nervously. I wasn't sure what Dad was going to do. He'd said the belt, but disobeying orders was the paddle, and always had been. I had only gotten the belt a couple of times, and when I was younger he'd give me swats with the paddle here and there for more serious infractions. 

 

“When you were a little girl, I added a couple of swats onto your spanking with the paddle, depending on what you'd done. Now that you're out of school and in training, it's a little different, and the consequences are more serious. Pulling that stunt earlier, putting yourself and us in danger—you're getting the belt, the same amount of licks from the belt as your age, is that clear?” His voice was low and terse.

I blanched. I was 18, and I'd never gotten that many swats before, with either the belt or paddle. “I, uh, yes sir,” my voice shook. I was not looking forward to this. Traveling and sitting on my butt over the next couple of days was not going to be comfortable. 

 

He unbuckled his belt and pulled it out of the loops, and the sound of the leather sliding against the denim made my stomach clench up. He folded the belt in half and set it on the end of the bed, then sat down on the edge and beckoned me over.

I walked over and stood in front of him, my nervousness increasing. He looked up at me for a moment, and then reached out and undid the button on my jeans. 

A blush flooded my face as he pulled my jeans down to my knees, and I closed my eyes. Dad always took down our clothes-- it was another way of reminding us that he was in charge. I opened my eyes, staring at the floor, and he took my wrist and pulled gently. I leaned down and he guided me over his lap. My torso rested on the bed, and he moved so that my butt was over his left thigh and his other leg was on top of mine. Just as he put his arm over my lower back, the AC in the room kicked on, and I felt a cool breeze waft across my legs. 

I felt embarrassed that here I was over my Dad's lap and he was looking down at my panties about to spank my ass. Then the first swat landed, and my body jerked. I cried out, and forgot about being embarrassed as my butt started to heat up. 

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Dad, please!” I pleaded, trying to push my body up. He locked his arm over me, and his hand continued its journey across my ass. My panties had ridden up slightly, so when his hand got to the undercurve it was like he was spanking my bare bottom. I flinched and yelped as his hand landed there several times, the sting so much worse. Tears came to my eyes and began to track down the sides of my face.

It had been a long time since I'd been spanked, and even longer since I'd had a John Winchester spanking. And damn, I forgot how hard he spanks. When John Winchester spanks, he spanks to make it memorable. When it's over, your ass is red and painful, and it's that way for at least a couple of days.

As his hard hand started its second circuit of my rear end, I suddenly remembered what his technique was—warm up the whole area and then change it up on the second go-round. This time, he spanked the same spot several times in a row, until I was kicking my feet and wriggling my body in an effort to deal with the slowly increasing sting. And then he'd start on another spot, the same thing, building up the pain with continued swats. You'd be concentrating on that new pain and then he'd whack the spot he had been spanking before, starting that sting up all over again. 

And all of that made you feel like you were going to go out of your mind. All you could do was grab ahold of the blankets on the bed and hold on for dear life, or bury your face and cry. 

And I was crying now, pulling the stiff motel coverlet towards me so that I could muffle the sounds coming out of my mouth. I tried to be stoic—my brothers always were, and I wasn't a little kid anymore—but I couldn't help it. I think anyone getting their butt roasted over John Winchester's knee would have a hard time remaining stoic, to be honest. 

He paused for a moment and I heard the buckle of the belt clink as he picked it up. I felt the leather brush across my back as he wrapped it around his hand. There was another waft of cool air across my legs-- it felt good on the hot punished skin of my rear end and the sweaty skin of my lower back.  
The jingle of the belt buckle as he moved it made me break out of my brief reverie.  
I felt his arm move and heard a swishing sound, and then the whap of the leather hitting my skin, and a second later the pain exploded.

I pushed my torso up and shrieked. “Dad please please I'm sorry Daddy I'm sorry--” and the second lick fell, and I shrieked again, “N--” but I caught myself. You didn't tell John Winchester no, especially not when you were being punished by him. 

“Be still,” he bit out, and his elbow shoved me down onto the bed. He pulled me closer to him, tucking me into his side, and held me even tighter. I thanked God briefly that I was small enough that he could still hold me over his lap. My brothers were tall and big and when they got whipped, they had to lean over the arm of the sofa or a chair, and they had to hold the position themselves. There was no way I'd ever be able to do that. 

The belt fell again and again. I tried to count, I tried to take deep breaths, I tried to kick some more. Nothing worked. Everything was hearing the belt fall and then the next line of pain across my rear end, and then the next one, slightly lower, and again, until the belt was falling on that spot right where butt turns into thigh. The last couple fell on the tops of my thighs and my shrieks got louder. My butt and thighs were just hot stripes of stinging pain now.

The buckle clanked as he set the belt on the bed. I laid there bawling. I had no energy left, and my butt was a raging inferno. As far as I was concerned I would never disobey my dad or his orders again. 

He let me lay there over his lap until my sobs had calmed down to an occasional hitching of my chest. Then I felt him lifting me up to a standing position. He took my chin in his hand and made me look at him.

“You need to follow orders. Obey me. Don't put yourself in danger. We clear?” His brown eyes looked into mine.

I nodded. “Yes sir,” I sniffled. 

He pulled me to his chest and put his arms around me, and I sat gingerly on his knee and slid my arms around him. 

When I had been younger I had snuggled with him on a regular basis. But hormones and snark had gotten in the way for several years and I rarely hugged him much any more. I found that I missed this feeling, of his arms enclosing me and his soft flannel against my cheek. I rested my head against his broad chest and smelled the familiar scents that were John Winchester- leather, sweat, and a hint of whiskey. He put his hand on the back of my head like he used to when I was a kid. 

“I haven't hugged you like this in a long time, it's nice,” he said quietly. 

“I'm sorry I screwed up the hunt, Dad,” I whispered.

“Shh, I'm just glad that you're safe,” he replied. 

I snuggled in closer to him, feeling safe in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add: I've started a new fic called "Sam and Dean and Little Girl Makes Three". Our OC gets hit with a de-aging spell. Expect lots of fluff and cuteness, and of course, spanking!


	15. Not Like The Pizza Man- A Visit From Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had been going back through this series- yes, I read my own stuff! --and also reading through the comments, and I came across the one that suggested having Castiel come in and heal the OC of her pain after she'd been punished, not understanding why she's in pain. I wrote this mostly in one sitting, and had some help from Edge_of_Clairvoyance and CrazedPanda- they beta'ed and suggested a couple of lines- thanks, you two!  
> This is a little different from the other fics, you'll see why. Enjoy!  
> *********

You're in your bedroom, sprawled across your bed, crying and feeling sorry for yourself as your ass throbs. You've just been punished by Dean, after a fierce argument about the next hunt. The guys didn't want you to go along, because of the risk of you getting hurt. You had scoffed at that, wanting to be included, and wouldn't back down. Both Dean and Sam had gotten annoyed with you and your arguing, and Dean had put his foot down, metaphorically. But you refused to let it go, and kept arguing and pushing. 

Dean had finally had enough, and he'd pulled a chair out from the table and turned you over his lap, right there in the library. The spanking had been of the 'hard and fast' variety, because Dean was angry, and so were you. You fought against crying but ultimately had to give up, as the pain got to be too much. 

After you'd started to cry, and gone limp over his knee, he'd let you up and ordered you to your room like a naughty child. You hadn't had any fight left by that point, and so you just went. 

You hear the sound of flapping wings, and turn your head to look.

Castiel is standing by the door, a look of consternation on his face. “Hello, y/n,” he says in his gravelly voice, “You are injured—what happened?” he takes quick steps over to the bed, reaching out to you-- “May I heal your pain?” 

Before you can say anything, open your mouth even, his fingertips have touched your forehead, and you feel the healing warmth flow from his fingers into your body. Your bottom becomes even warmer for a long moment, and then it is gone, and with it, all the pain. 

He lowers his arm, and you sit up and scoot over to the head of your bed. 

“There” he says with satisfaction, “You are healed now.”

“Um, well--” you say hesitantly.

He frowns in confusion. “What is wrong? Why are you reticent about being healed of your pain?”

“Uh--” you wrack your brain to try and figure out how to explain it to him, and there's a knock on your door. 

“Come in,” you call, and the door opens. Dean enters, followed by Sam.

“What are you doing here?” Dean asks Castiel.

“Sam had asked me to look for certain ingredients and I came to deliver them,” Castiel replies. “I healed y/n's pain.”

Dean gives Castiel a look. “Why'd you do that?”

“I thought humans wished to be healed of pain.” 

“Well, see, y/n got in trouble, she had been punished,” Dean explains. 

“And she was-- punished in such a way that it made her buttocks hurt?” 

“Yeah, with a spanking,” Dean says. 

Castiel looks from Dean to Sam. “You mean—the same action that the pizza man was performing on the babysitter in that movie that we watched?” 

“Movie? What movie?” you ask, looking at the guys.

Sam blushes and looks down at his feet. Dean rolls his eyes, and his face gets a little red too. “Yeah—well no, not like that, exactly. That was, uh—that was for fun.” 

“For fun,” Castiel repeats, “I do not understand. You did not explain things fully to me before—how is causing someone pain by striking their buttocks with an open palm fun? Fun for the recipient, or fun for the person administering the punishment?” 

“Well, uh, both,” Dean's face gets a little redder. 

Castiel frowns again. “I do not understand. Were you and y/n doing it for fun, then? If it was fun, then why was she face down on her bed, crying?” 

Dean glances at you, and he looks like he feels guilty now. “No, it wasn't for fun. Listen, it wasn't like the pizza man, okay, just-- just put that out of your mind!”

“Then what was it like?” Castiel asks blithely.

Dean huffs in exasperation. “It was—it was like how you punish a kid. You spank a kid if they misbehave, y'know, and sometimes adults do that kind of thing too.” 

Castiel looks at you now. “You allow Dean to spank your buttocks with his hand, until you cry?” 

Now you're blushing. You stare at your bedspread, wishing a hole would open up in the floor and swallow you up. “Umm....yeah.” 

Castiel frowns in confusion, “I do not understand the point of that, I thought that it was supposed to be for enjoyment, as a prelude to sexual activity.”

“Geez, what kind of movie were you guys watching with him?” you burst out. 

Sam shakes his head. “We didn't put it on, he was flipping through the channels in a hotel room while we were busy researching, and we heard the sounds, and looked over, and he was watching--” he sighs, and looks at Castiel, “The point is, a punishment is to correct behavior, it's supposed to hurt, so that you think about what you've done wrong, and it's to deter you from doing wrong again. You're supposed to think, 'last time I did this, I got caught and got my butt walloped, I shouldn't do it again'.”

Castiel tilts his head, “And is it a deterrent?”

Dean shrugs, “Sometimes.”

“It didnt deter you from tom-catting around or getting into Dad's booze,” Sam says with a scoff. 

“Yeah, well, sometimes those teenage urges are too strong, y'know?” Dean grins. 

“So your father administered this same punishment to you?” Castiel asks Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, “John Winchester was a firm believer in physical discipline.”

Castiel looks at you. “Dean is not your father, he is not even related to you by blood, and yet, he punishes you as if you have that kind of relationship.” He tilts his head questioningly. 

You blush harder. “Um...yeah.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“Well, sometimes adults choose to do that sort of thing,” Dean explains. 

“But y/n is not your daughter, and yet she chooses to allow it? Even though it is unpleasant and painful?” 

You sigh. “Yes, Castiel, sometimes people have relationships where they do...this sort of thing...and it's perfectly fine.” 

“It is perfectly fine that Dean strikes your buttocks until you are crying? I thought humans did not like pain, or crying.” 

“No, but it-- that's the point of a punishment, like Sam said earlier, you know?” Dean huffs in annoyance. “You screw up, you get a consequence, a spanking causes you pain, it goes away in a day or so, and you've paid the piper.” 

Castiel frowns again. “There is a piper in the relationship as well? Why is this the first I have heard of it? Why does the piper need to be paid? How--”

“Geez, Cas, no!” Dean's voice has raised almost to a shout. “It's an expression. Look, sometimes when y/n messes up, we spank her, and that's how it is. There's not some deeper meaning, and you don't need to analyze or figure it out. We're all good here.” Dean looks over at you and gives you a little smile. 

“What do you mean, sometimes? Try every single time!” you retort with a pout. 

“Well, that's what you need,” Dean declares, folding his arms. You stick your tongue out at him. 

Castiel looks from Dean to you. “You are smiling at each other. Humans do not like it when one of them causes another pain, and there are often hurt feelings and anger. Why is it not like that now?” 

“Because she knows that she deserved what she got,” Dean says. 

“But humans say that people do not deserve to be harmed, and there are many rules and laws about harming each other.” 

“It's not harm, Castiel, it's a spanking. It hurts for a while, but it's not permanent, and a lesson gets imparted,” Sam says. 

“And the aftereffect, the lingering pain, is supposed to be part of the punishment, but you screwed it up by healing her ass,” Dean says to Cas. Then he turns his attention to you. “I think in order for Cas to understand that you're really okay with it, we should give him a demonstration, and he'll see exactly what happens, and that you're not really injured.” 

“Uh—a—demonstration?” you ask with hesitation. You don't like where this is going. 

Castiel actually looks interested. “Yes, a demonstration would be most instructive.” 

You stare at him. “Instructive for who?” 

“For me,” the angel says, “It will serve to educate me further in the matters of corporal punishment.”

Dean walks over to the bed and sits down on the edge, then turns to look at you. “C'mon, y/n,” he gestures to his lap. 

You squirm with embarrassment. “But—but he—“ you look over at Sam, “I don't want an audience!”

“What's the big deal, both of us have spanked you in front of the other before,” Dean says off-handedly.

“You have both administered discipline to y/n?” Castiel asks curiously.

You feel yourself start to blush again. “Oh my God, can you not--”

Dean pats his thigh. “Let's go, little girl,” his voice deepens a little, making your stomach twist. 

You sigh. “All riiiight.” 

Dean looks at you pointedly, and you get up and move over to him, and then lay yourself over his lap. You feel his thigh muscles move under you as he shifts and moves you into position. 

“AAAHH!” you can't help but screech as Dean's hand begins to fall. The pain is sharp, like Dean has just started spanking you. When you get spanked on a regular basis, it's almost like there's a 'toughening up' as your body gets used to the pain. But Castiel healed everything, so it's like you've never been spanked. 

Dean's hard hand covers every inch of your ass, and then he concentrates on your sit-spots and the tops of your thighs for several swats. You screech again and struggle, trying to get your butt out of the line of fire, but he just snugs your body against him. 

“Deeeeaaaann pleeeeease!” you wail as his hand begins a second circuit, harder this time. And here come the tears, you were going to try your damnedest to not cry in front of the angel, it's humiliating enough having to be spanked in front of him. 

You cry out again as Dean concentrates on the crease between your ass and thighs, lighting that area up with stinging swats that have you kicking your feet. 

And then it is over, and you're a sniveling mess laying over Dean's lap. He helps you sit up on his thigh and encloses you in his arms, shushing you as you clutch at his flannel. You don't care that you're getting snot and tears all over his shirt, he shouldn't have spanked you that hard a second time! 

You hear footsteps and look up. 

Castiel has walked closer to the bed, and he is gazing down at you. He tilts his head to the side. “Indeed,” he intones in his gruff voice, “That was nothing like the pizza man.”


	16. By the Side of the Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all...sorry it's been a while...I haven't abandoned you all, I promise! Depression and health stuff has been kicking my ass, and the writing muse has been very distractible. Then this happened, so I went with it. I don't think it's the same OC as the in the other fics, I didn't intentionally write it to be, but you can tell me what you think. Shout-out to Edge_of_Clairvoyance, CrazedPanda, and alexofthegarden for being my cheerleading section and betas!   
> *****************

You hear the sound of the belt whistling through the air and then feel the burst of pain as it lands on your ass, the impact driving you forward into the hard surface of the trunk.

Your back arches up as you hiss, and you hear a footstep and then feel a hand on your back, pushing you down. You gasp as your stomach hits the cold metal of the car.

“Stay. Down,” Dean grits out, pressing down on your back for a moment. When you relax onto the flat surface, he removes his hand and you hear the crunch of gravel as he steps back.

The metallic jingle of the belt buckle blends with the sound of crickets coming from the field next to the shoulder, and then you hear the tell-tale sound of leather slicing through the air again. 

Even though you brace yourself for the blow, it still stuns you momentarily when it lands, and you let out a strangled cry and push your torso upright.

“All right, that's it,” Dean steps up right behind you again, and you hear a clatter as he tosses the belt next to you. Then he is slamming you down on the trunk, one hand on your back, the other one falling on your rear, solid swats that land in quick succession and make your butt feel like it's being stung by a thousand bees. You had been too shocked to cry before, but now tears spill down your cheeks.

“When—I--tell-- you—stay—down—you--stay--DOWN!” His voice is loud by the end, each word punctuated by a brisk smack right on the under curve of your ass. 

You try to respond but a sob sticks in your throat and you cry out wordlessly. 

“Do—you—understand--me?” he yells, and each of these blows falls on your upper thighs.

You screech, twisting your torso to try and get your butt out of the line of fire. He presses down on your back again. “STAY! STILL!”

“Yessir! Yes s-sir!” You sob pleadingly, hoping your agreement will make him soften, just a little bit, and go easier on your ass. 

You flatten your spine and let your muscles go limp. He lets go of you and moves to the side, and then you hear the clatter of metal on metal as he picks up the belt. Gravel crunches as he steps behind you, and you spread your arms out across the smooth expanse of the trunk, wishing there was something to hold on to--

The blow forces the breath from your lungs, and tears start to fall again. The belt lands with precision, each blow placed slightly above or below the last one, overlapping just a little bit, and there are sounds being forced out of your mouth as the surface under your cheek becomes wet with tears.

You usually plead with him at some point, apologize, try to bargain, but you know none of that will change this.  
You want him to talk, to scold, to reassure, but there is nothing except the sound of leather slicing through air and then the impact of it hitting your skin, over and over.

Your ass and thighs are throbbing, the car warm under your cheek now, the hard metal of the bumper against the front of your thighs a counterpoint to the burning on your backside.

You hear the crickets in the bushes on the side of the road. The sound of leather sliding against denim as Dean puts his belt back on.

You try to get yourself under control, stop your breath from heaving.

His hand on the back of your shirt, pulling you upright, gripping your shoulder and turning you--

you stare up at him, your chin trembling, unsure of what to say, what he is going to say--

his hands on your shoulders, hard, he shakes you, his green eyes still snapping fire-- “Don't you ever. Leave again like that.” his voice is emphatic as he gives you another shake. “We've been searching. For hours.” his breath catches, and he pulls you closer-- “You don't do that ever again, you understand me?” his voice is louder, rougher.

You nod your head, and then your mouth opens, you know he expects a verbal response, your throat is rough from all the crying-- “Yes, D-dean,” you whisper, and your chin begins to tremble again, you didn't think he'd still be this angry--

and then something in his face changes-- he lets go of your shoulders, and his arms are wrapped around you and he's pulled you into his chest.

“Thought we lost you--” he whispers fiercely, and there is a note in his voice that you realize is fear, it's not anger that made him come after you, hunt you down, punish you--

“--never again, never wanna go through that again--” the fear makes his voice shake and you feel his hand in your hair as he holds you tightly, and you begin to sob again. You scared him, probably down to his core, he reacts like this when things cut too deep.

“I'm sorry,” you whimper, “So, so sorry,” you nudge his leather jacket to the side and bury your face in his flannel, smelling his warm Old-Spice-and-whiskey smell.

“M' sorry too,” he murmurs, and you feel his lips on your temple. “Don't wanna lose you, ever.”

“You won't,” you murmur back, sliding your hands under his jacket and gripping the back of his shirt.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Brother's Discipline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439165) by [fromacloset](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromacloset/pseuds/fromacloset)




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